m: 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/furtherfoolishneOOIeac 


FURTHER     FOOLISHNESS 


BY  STEPHEN  LEACOCK 


BEHIND  THE  BEYOND 
NONSENSE  NOVELS 
LITERARY  LAPSES 

SUNSHINE  SKETCHES 

ARCADIAN 

ADVENTURES  WITH 

THE  IDLE  RICH 

ESSAYS 

AND  LITERARY 

STUDIES 

MOONBEAAIS  FROM 
THE  LARGER  LUNACY 


FURTHER 
FOOLISHNESS 

SKETCHES    AND    SATIRES 

ON    THE     FOLLIES     OF    THE    DAY 


BY    STEPHEN    LEACOCK 

AUTHOR  OF  "nonsense  NOVELS,"  "MOONBEAMS  FROU 
THE  LARGER  LUNACY,"  "BEHIND  THE  BEYOND,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
TORONTO:     S.  B.  GUNDY     :    MCMXVI 


Copyright,  19 16, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 


Many  years  ago  when  I  was  a  boy  at  school,  we  had 
over  our  class  an  ancient  and  spectacled  schoolmaster 
who  was  as  kind  at  heart  as  he  was  ferocious  in  appear- 
ance and  whose  memory  has  suggested  to  me  the  title 
of  this  book- 
It  was  his  practice,  on  any  outburst  of  gayety  in  the 
class  room,  to  chase  us  to  our  seats  with  a  bamboo  cane 
and  to  shout  at  us  in  defiance, — 
Now,  then,  any  further  foolishness? 
I  find  by  experience  that  there  are  quite  a  number  of 
indulgent  readers  who  are  good  enough  to  adopt  the 
same  expectant  attitude  towards  me  now. 


Stephen  Leacock. 


McGill  University, 

Montreal, 

Nov.  I,  1916. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PA6B 

I  Peace,  War  and  Politics 9 

1.  Germany  from  Within  Out  ....  11 

2.  Abdul  Aziz  Has  His 31 

3.  In  Merry  Mexico 66 

4.  Over  the  Grape  Juice 94 

5.  The  White  House  from  Without  In      .  120 

II  Movies  and  Motors,  Men  and  Women.  131 

6.  Madeline  of  the  Movies 133 

7.  The  Call  of  the  Carbureter  .      .      .      .  151 

8.  The  Two  Sexes,  in  Fives  or  Sixes    .      .  162 

9.  The  Grass  Bachelor's  Guide       ,      .      .  174 

10.  Every  Man  and  His  Friends      .      .      .  185 

11.  More  than  Twice  Told  Tales     .      .      .  197 

12.  A  Study  in  Still  Life 214 

III  Follies  in  Fiction 221 

13.  Stories  Shorter  Still 223 

14.  The  Snoopopaths 231 

15.  Foreign  Fiction  in  Imported  Instalments  250 

IV  Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics      .     .281 

16.  Are  the  Rich  Happy? 283 

17.  Humor  as  I  See  It 294 


PEACE,    WAR,  AND 
POLITICS 


/. — Germany  From  Within  Out 

THE  adventure  which  I  here  narrate 
resulted  out  of  a  strange  psychologi- 
cal experience  of  a  kind  that    (out- 
side  of   Germany)    would   pass   the 
bounds  of  comprehension. 

To  begin  with,  I  had  fallen  asleep. 
Of  the  reason  for  my  falling  asleep  I 
have  no  doubt.  I  had  remained  awake  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  preceding  night,  absorbed  in 
the  perusal  of  a  number  of  recent  magazine 
articles  and  books  dealing  with  Germany  as 
seen  from  within.  I  had  read  from  cover  to 
cover  that  charming  book,  just  written  by 
Lady  de  Washaway,  under  the  title  Ten  Years 
as  a  Toady,  or  The  Per-Hapsbiirgs  as  I  Didn't 
Know  Them.  Her  account  of  the  life  of  the 
Imperial  Family  of  Austria — simple,  unaffect- 
ed, home-like :  her  picture  of  the  good  old 
Emperor,  dining  quietly  off  a  cold  potato  and 

II 


Further  Foolishness 


sitting  after  dinner  playing  softly  to  himself 
on  the  flute,  while  his  attendants  gently  with- 
drew one  by  one  from  his  presence:  her  de- 
scription of  merry,  boisterous,  large-hearted 
Prince  Stefan  Karl,  who  kept  the  whole  court 
in  a  perpetual  roar  all  the  time  by  asking  such 
riddles  as  "When  is  a  sailor  not  a  sailor?" 
(the  answer  being,  of  course,  when  he  is  a 
German  Prince) — in  fact,  the  whole  book  had 
thrilled  me  to  the  verge  of  spiritual  exhaus- 
tion. 

From  Lady  de  Washaway's  work  I  turned 
to  peruse  Hugo  von  Halbwitz's  admirable 
book,  Easy  Marks,  or  How  the  German  Gov- 
ernment Borrows  Its  Funds;  and  after  that 
I  had  read  Karl  von  Wiggleround's  Despatches, 
and  Barnstuff's  Confidential  Letters  to  Grim- 
minals. 

As  a  consequence  I  fell  asleep  as  if  poisoned. 

But  the  amazing  thing  is  that,  wherever  it 
was  or  was  not  that  I  fell  asleep,  I  woke  up 
to  find  myself  in  Germany. 

I  cannot  offer  any  explanation  as  to  how 
this  came  about.     I  merely  state  the  fact. 

12 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


There  I  was  seated  on  the  grassy  bank  of  a 
country  road. 

I  knew  it  was  Germany  at  once.  There 
was  no  mistaking  it.  The  whole  landscape 
had  an  orderliness,  a  method  about  it  that 
is,  alas!  never  seen  in  British  countries.  The 
trees  stood  In  neat  lines,  with  the  name  of  each 
nailed  to  it  on  a  board.  The  birds  sat  in  regu- 
lar rows,  four  to  a  branch,  and  sang  in  har- 
mony, very  simply,  but  with  the  true  German 
feeling. 

There  were  two  peasants  working  beside 
the  road.  One  was  picking  up  fallen  leaves, 
and  putting  them  into  neat  packets  of  fifty. 
The  other  was  cutting  off  the  tops  of  the  late 
thistles  that  still  stood  unwithered  in  the  chill 
winter  air,  and  arranging  them  according  to 
size  and  colour.  In  Germany  nothing  is  lost; 
nothing  Is  wasted.  It  is  perhaps  not  generally 
known  that  from  the  top  of  the  thistle  the  Ger- 
mans obtain  picrate  of  ammonia,  the  most 
deadly  explosive  known  to  modern  chemistry, 
while  from  the  bulb  below,  butter,  crude  rub- 

13 


Further  Foolishness 


ber  and  sweet  cider  are  extracted  In  large 
quantities. 

The  two  peasants  paused  In  their  work  a 
moment  as  they  saw  me  glance  towards  them, 
and  each,  with  the  simple  gentility  of  the  Ger- 
man workingman,  quietly  stood  on  his  head 
until  I  had  finished  looking  at  him. 

I  felt  quite  certain,  of  course,  that  it  must 
only  be  a  matter  of  a  short  time  before  I  would 
inevitably  be  arrested. 

I  felt  doubly  certain  of  it  when  I  saw  a 
motor  speeding  towards  me  with  a  stout  man, 
in  military  uniform  and  a  Prussian  helmet, 
seated  behind  the  chauffeur. 

The  motor  stopped,  but  to  my  surprise,  the 
military  man,  whom  I  perceived  to  be  wearing 
the  uniform  of  a  general,  jumped  out  and  ad- 
vanced towards  me  with  a  genial  cry  of: 

"Well!  Herr  Professor!" 

I  looked  at  him  again ■ 

"Why,  Fritz!"  I  cried. 

"You  recognise  me?"  he  said. 

"Certainly,"  I  answered,  "you  used  to  be 
14 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


one  of  the  six  German  waiters  at  McCluskey's 
restaurant  in  Toronto." 

The   General  laughed. 

"You  really  took  us  for  waiters!"  he  said. 
"Well,  well.  My  dear  professor!  How  odd! 
We  were  all  generals  in  the  German  army. 
My  own  name  is  not  Fritz  Schmidt,  as  you 
knew  it,  but  Count  Boob  von  Boobenstein.  The 
Boobs  of  Boobenstein,"  he  added  proudly,  "are 
connected  with  the  Hohenzollerns.  When  I 
am  commanded  to  dine  with  the  Emperor,  I 
have  the  hereditary  right  to  eat  anything  that 
he  leaves." 

"But  I  don't  understand!"  I  said.  "Why 
were  you  in  Toronto?" 

"Perfectly  simple.  Special  military  service. 
We  were  there  to  make  a  report.  Each  day 
we  kept  a  record  of  the  velocity  and  direction 
of  the  wind,  the  humidity  of  the  air,  the  dis- 
tance across  King  street  and  the  height  of  the 
C.  P.  R.  Building.  All  this  we  wired  to  Ger- 
many every  day." 

"For  what  purpose?"  I  asked. 

"Pardon  me !"  said  the  General,  and  then, 
15 


Further  Foolishness 


turning  the   subject  with   exquisite   tact:   "Do 
you  remember  Max?"  he  said. 

"Do  you  mean  the  tall  melancholy-looking 
waiter,  who  used  to  eat  the  spare  oysters  and 
drink  up  what  was  left  in  the  glasses,  behind 
the   screen?" 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  my  friend.  "But  why  did 
he  drink  them?  Why?  Do  you  know  that 
that  man — his  real  name  is  not  Max  but  Ernst 
Niedelfein — is  one  of  the  greatest  chemists  in 
Germany?  Do  you  realise  that  he  was  mak- 
ing a  report  to  our  War  Office  on  the  percent- 
age of  alcohol  obtainable  in  Toronto  after 
closing  time?" 

"And  Karl?"  I  asked. 

"Karl  was  a  topographist  in  the  service  of 
his  High  Serenity  the  King  Regnant  of  Ba- 
varia"— here  my  friend  saluted  himself  with 
both  hands  and  blinked  his  eyes  four  times — 
"He  made  maps  of  all  the  breweries  of  Can- 
ada. We  know  now  to  a  bottle  how  many 
German  soldiers  could  be  used  in  invading 
Canada  without  danger  of  death  from 
drought." 

i6 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"How  many  was  it?"  I  asked. 

Boobenstein  shook  his  head. 

"Very  disappointing,"  he  said.  j"In  fact 
your  country  is  not  yet  ripe  for  German  occu- 
pation. Our  experts  say  that  the  invasion  of 
Canada  is  an  impossibility  unless  we  use  Mil- 
waukee as  a  base " 

"But  step  into  my  motor,"  said  the  Count, 
interrupting  himself,  "and  come  along  with 
me.  Stop,  you  are  cold.  This  morning  air  is 
very  keen.  Take  this,"  he  added,  picking  off 
the  fur  cap  from  the  chauffeur's  head;  "it  will 
be  better  than  that  hat  you  are  wearing — or, 
here,  wait  a  moment " 

As  he  spoke  the  Count  unwound  a  woollen 
muffler  from  the  chauffeur's  neck,  and  placed 
it  round  mine. 

"Now  then,"  he  added,  "this  sheepskin 
coat " 

"My  dear  Count,"  I  protested. 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit,"  he  cried,  as  he  pulled 
off  the  chauffeur's  coat  and  shoved  me  mto  it. 
His  face  beamed  with  true  German  generos- 
ity. 

17 


Further  Foolishness 


"Now,"  he  said,  as  we  settled  back  into  the 
motor  and  started  along  the  road,  "I  am  en- 
tirely at  your  service.  Try  one  of  these  cigars ! 
Got  it  alight?  Right!  You  notice,  no  doubt, 
the  exquisite  flavour.  It  is  a  Tannhduser.  Our 
chemists  are  making  these  cigars  now  out  of 
the  refuse  of  the  tanneries  and  glue  factories." 

I  sighed  involuntarily.  Imagine  trying  to 
"blockade"  a  people  who  could  make  cigars 
out  of  refuse ;  imagine  trying  to  get  near  them 
at  all! 

"Strong,  aren't  they,"  said  von  Boobenstein, 
blowing  a  big  puff  of  smoke.  "In  fact,  it  is 
these  cigars  that  have  given  rise  to  the  legend 
(a  pure  fiction,  I  need  hardly  say)  that  our 
armies  are  using  asphyxiating  gas.  The  truth 
is  they  are  merely  smoking  German-made  to- 
bacco in  their  trenches." 

"But  come  now,"  he  continued,  "your  meet- 
ing with  me  is  most  fortunate.  Let  me  ex- 
plain. I  am  at  present  on  the  Intelligence 
Branch  of  the  General  Staff.  My  particular 
employment  is  dealing  with  foreign  visitors — 
the  branch  of  our  service  called,  for  short,  the 

i8 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


Eingewanderte-Fremden-Verfiillungs- Bureau. 
How  would  you  call  that?" 

"It  sounds,"  I  said,  "like  the  Bureau  for 
Stuffing  Up  Incidental  Foreigners." 

"Precisely,"  said  the  Count,  "though  your 
language  lacks  the  music  of  ours.  It  is  my 
business  to  escort  visitors  round  Germany  and 
help  them  with  their  despatches.  I  took  the 
Ford  party  through — in  a  closed  cattle-car, 
with  the  lights  out.  They  were  greatly  im- 
pressed. They  said  that  though  they  saw  noth- 
ing, they  got  an  excellent  idea  of  the  atmosphere 
of  Germany.  It  was  I  who  introduced  Lady 
de  Washaway  to  the  Court  of  Franz  Joseph. 
I  write  the  despatches  from  Karl  von  Wiggle- 
round,  and  send  the  necessary  material  to 
Ambassador  von  Barnstuff.  In  fact  I  can  take 
you  everywhere,  show  you  everything,  and" — 
here  my  companion's  military  manner  suddenly 
seemed  to  change  into  something  obsequiously 
and  strangely  familiar — "it  won't  cost  you  a 

cent — not  a  cent,  unless  you  care " 

I  understood. 

I  handed  him  ten  cents. 

19 


Further  Foolishness 


"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said.  Then  with  an 
abrupt  change  back  to  his  military  manner: 

"Now,  then,  what  would  you  like  to  see? 
The  army?  The  breweries?  The  Royal  court? 
Berlin?  What  shall  it  be?  My  time  is  lim- 
ited, but  I  shall  be  delighted  to  put  myself  at 
your  service  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "I  should  like  more  than 
anything  to  see  Berlin,  if  it  is  possible." 

"Possible ?"  answered  my  companion. 
"Nothing  easier." 

The  motor  flew  ahead  and  in  a  few  moments 
later  we  were  making  our  arrangements  with  a 
local  station  master  for  a  special  train  to  Ber- 
lin. 

I  got  here  my  first  glimpse  of  the  wonder- 
ful perfection  of  the  German  railway  system. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  station  master,  with 
deep  apologies,  "that  I  must  ask  you  to  wait 
half  an  hour.  I  am  moving  a  quarter  of  a 
million  troops  from  the  east  to  the  west  front, 
and  this  always  holds  up  the  traflUc  for  fifteen 
or  twenty  minutes." 

I  stood  on  the  platform  watching  the  troop 
20 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


trains  go  by  and  admiring  the  marvellous  in- 
genuity of  the  German  system. 

As  each  train  went  past  at  full  speed,  a  pos- 
tal train  (Feld-Post-Eisenbahn-Zug)  moved  on 
the  other  track  in  the  opposite  direction,  from 
which  a  shower  of  letters  were  thrown  in  to 
the  soldiers  through  the  window.  Immediately 
after  the  postal  train,  a  soup  train  (Soup-Zug) 
was  drawn  along,  from  the  windows  of  which 
soup  was  squirted  out  of  a  hose. 

Following  this  there  came  at   full   speed  a 
beer  train  (Bier-Zug)   from  which  beer  bombs 
were  exploded  in  all  directions. 
I  watched  till  all  had  passed. 
"Now,"  said  the  station  master,  "your  train 
is  ready.     Here  you  are." 

Away  we  sped  through  meadows  and  fields, 
hills  and  valleys,  forests  and  plains. 

And  nowhere — I  am  forced,  like  all  other 
travellers,  to  admit  it — did  we  see  any  signs 
of  the  existence  of  war.  Everything  was  quiet, 
orderly,  usual.  We  saw  peasants  digging — in 
an  orderly  way — for  acorns  in  the  frozen 
ground.    We  saw  little  groups  of  soldiers  drill- 

21 


Further  Foolishness 


Ing  in  the  open  squares  of  villages — in  their 
quiet  German  fashion — each  man  chained  by 
the  leg  to  the  man  next  to  him ;  here  and  there 
great  Zeppelins  sailed  overhead  dropping 
bombs,  for  practice,  on  the  less  important 
towns;  at  times  in  the  village  squares  we  saw 
clusters  of  haggard  women  (quite  quiet  and 
orderly)  waving  little  red  flags  and  calling: 
"Bread,  Bread!" 

But  nowhere  any  signs  of  war.  Certainly 
not. 

We  reached  Berlin  just  at  nightfall.  I  had 
expected  to  find  it  changed.  To  my  surprise 
it  appeared  just  as  usual.  The  streets  were 
brilliantly  lighted.  Music  burst  in  waves  from 
the  restaurants.  From  the  theatre-signs  I  saw, 
to  my  surprise,  that  they  were  playing  Hamlet, 
East  Lynne  and  Potash  and  Perlmutter.  Ev- 
erywhere were  brightness,  gaiety  and  light- 
heartedness. 

Here  and  there  a  merry-looking  fellow  with 
a  brush  and  a  pail  of  paste  and  a  roll  of  pa- 
pers over  his  arm  would  swab  up  a  casualty 

22 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


list  of  two  or  three  thousand  names,  amid  roads 
of  good-natured  laughter. 

What  perplexed  me  most  was  the  sight  of 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  men,  not  in 
uniform,  but  in  ordinary  civilian  dress. 

"Boobenstein,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  down 
the  Linden  Avenue,  "I  don't  understand  it." 

"The  men?"  he  answered.  "It's  a  perfectly- 
simple  matter.  I  see  you  don't  understand  our 
army  statistics.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war 
we  had  an  army  of  three  million.  Very  good. 
Of  these,  one  million  were  in  the  reserve.  We 
called  them  to  the  colours,  that  made  four 
million.  Then  of  these  all  who  wished  were 
allowed  to  volunteer  for  special  services.  Half 
a  million  did  so.  That  made  four  and  a  half 
million.  In  the  first  year  of  the  war  we  suf- 
fered two  million  casualties,  but  of  these  sev- 
enty-five per  cent.,  or  one  and  a  half  million, 
returned  later  on  to  the  colours,  bringing  our 
grand  total  up  to  six  million.  This  six  mil- 
lion we  use  on  each  of  six  fronts,  giving  a 
grand  total  of  thirty-six  million." 

"I  see,"  I  said.     "In  fact,  I  have  seen  these 
23 


Further  Foolishness 


figures  before.     In  other  words,  your  men  are 
inexhaustible." 

"Precisely,"  said  the  Count,  "and  mark  you, 
behind  these  we  still  have  the  Landsturm,  made 
up  of  men  between  fifty-five  and  sixty,  and  the 
Landslide,  reputed  to  be  the  most  terrible  of 
all  the  German  levies,  made  up  by  withdraw- 
ing the  men  from  the  breweries.  That  is  the 
last  final  act  of  national  fury.  But  come,"  he 
said,  "you  must  be  hungry.     Is  it  not  so?" 

"I  am,"  I  admitted,  "but  I  had  hesitated  to 
acknowledge  it.  I  feared  that  the  food  sup- 
ply " 

Von  Boobenstein  broke  into  hearty  laugh- 
ter  

"Food  supply!"  he  roared.  "My  dear  fel- 
low, you  must  have  been  reading  the  English 
newspapers!  Food  supply!  My  dear  profes- 
sor! Have  you  not  heard?  We  have  got  over 
that  difficulty  entirely  and  forever.  But  come, 
here  is  a  restaurant.  In  with  you  and  eat  to 
your  heart's  content." 

We  entered  the  restaurant.  It  was  filled  to 
overflowing  with  a  laughing  crowd  of  diners 

24 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


and  merry-makers.  Thick  clouds  of  blue  cigar- 
smoke  filled  the  air.  Waiters  ran  to  and  fro 
with  tall  steins  of  foaming  beer,  and  great  bun- 
dles of  bread  tickets,  soup  tickets,  meat  cards 
and  butter  coupons. 

These  were  handed  around  to  the  guests, 
who  sat  quietly  chewing  the  corners  of  them  as 
they  sipped  their  beer. 

"Now  then,"  said  my  host,  looking  over  the 
printed  menu  in  front  of  him,  "what  shall  it 
be?  What  do  you  say  to  a  ham  certificate  with 
a  cabbage  ticket  on  the  side?  Or  how  would 
you  like  lobster-coupon  with  a  receipt  for  as- 
paragus?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "or  perhaps  as  our  jour- 
ney has  made  me  hungry,  one  of  these  beef 
certificates  with  an  affidavit  for  Yorkshire  pud- 
ding." 

"Done!"  said  Boobenstein. 

A  few  moments  later  we  were  comfortably 
drinking  our  tall  glasses  of  beer  and  smoking 
Tannhdiiser  cigars,  with  an  appetising  pile  of 
coloured  tickets  and  certificates  in  front  of  us. 

"Admit,"    said   von   Boobenstein,    good   na- 
25 


Further  Foolishness 


turedly,  "that  we  have  overcome  the  food  dif- 
ficulty forever." 

"You  have,"  I  said. 

"It  was  a  pure  matter  of  science  and  effi- 
ciency," he  went  on.  "It  has  long  been  ob- 
served that  if  one  sat  down  in  a  restaurant  and 
drank  beer  and  smoked  cigars  (especially  such 
a  brand  as  these  Tannhdusers)  during  the 
time  it  took  for  the  food  to  be  brought  (by  a 
German  waiter),  all  appetite  was  gone.  It 
remained  for  the  German  scientists  to  organ- 
ise this  into  system.  Have  you  finished?  Or 
would  you  like  to  take  another  look  at  your 
beef  certificate?" 

We  rose.  Von  Boobenstein  paid  the  bill  by 
writing  I.O.U.  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  cards 
— not  forgetting  the  waiter,  for  whom  he 
wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper,  ^^God  bless  you" — 
and  we  left. 

"Count,"  I  said,  as  we  took  our  seat  on  a 
bench  in  the  Sieges-Allee,  or  Allee  of  Victory, 
and  listened  to  the  music  of  a  military  band, 
and  watched  the  crowd,  "I  begin  to  see  that 
Germany  is  unconquerable." 

26 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"Absolutely  so,"  he  answered. 

"In  the  first  place,  your  men  are  Inexhaust- 
ible. If  we  kill  one  class,  you  call  out  an- 
other; and  anyway  one-half  of  those  we  kill 
get  well  again,  and  the  net  result  is  that  you 
have  more  than  ever." 

"Precisely,"  said  the  Count. 

"As  to  food,"  I  continued,  "you  are  abso- 
lutely invulnerable.  What  with  acorns,  this- 
tles, tanbark,  glue,  tickets,  coupons,  and  cer- 
tificates, you  can  go  on  forever." 

"We  can,"  he  said. 

"Then  for  money,  you  use  I.  O.  U.'s.  Any- 
body with  a  leadpencil  can  command  all  the 
funds  he  wants.  Moreover,  your  soldiers  at 
the  front  are  getting  dug  in  deeper  and  deep- 
er: last  spring  they  were  fifty  feet  under 
ground:  by  191 8  they  will  be  nearly  200  feet 
down.  Short  of  mining  for  them,  we  shall 
never  get  them  out." 

"Never,"  said  Von  Boobenstein  with  great 
firmness. 

"But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  don't  quite 
understand.     Your  navy,  your  ships.     There, 

27 


Further  Foolishness 


surely,  we  have  you :  sooner  or  later  that  whole 
proud  fleet  in  the  Kiel  Canal  will  come  out  un- 
der fire  of  our  guns  and  be  sunk  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.     There,  at  least,  we  conquer." 

Von  Boobenstein  broke  into  loud  laughter. 

"The  fleet!"  he  roared,  and  his  voice  was 
almost  hysterical  and  overstrung,  as  if  high 
living  on  lobster-coupons  and  over-smoking  of 
Tannhdusers  was  undermining  his  nerves. 
"The  fleet!  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know? 
Why  all  Germany  knows  it.  Capture  our  fleet ! 
Ha !  Ha  !  It  now  lies  fifty  miles  inland.  We 
have  filled  in  the  canal — pushed  in  the  banks. 
The  canal  is  solid  land  again,  and  the  fleet  is 
high  and  dry.  The  ships  are  boarded  over 
and  painted  to  look  like  German  inns  and  brew- 
eries. Prinz  Adelbert  is  disguised  as  a  brewer; 
Admiral  von  Tirpitz  Is  made  up  as  a  head 
waiter;  Prince  Heinrich  is  a  bartender;  the 
sailors  are  dressed  up  as  chambermaids.  And 
some  day  when  Jellicoe  and  his  men  are  coaxed 
ashore,  they  will  drop  in  to  drink  a  glass  of 
beer,  and  then — pouf!  we  will  explode  them 
all  with  a  single  torpedo!     Such  is  the  naval 

28 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


strategy  of  our  scientists!  Are  we  not  a  na- 
tion of  sailors?" 

Von  Boobenstein's  manner  had  grown  still 
wilder  and  more  hysterical.  There  was  a  queer 
glitter  in  his  eyes. 

I  thought  it  better  to  soothe  him. 

"I  see,"  I  said,  "the  Allies  are  beaten.  One 
might  as  well  spin  a  coin  for  heads  or  tails  to 
see  whether  we  abandon  England  now  or  wait 
till  you  come  and  take  it." 

As  I  spoke,  I  took  from  my  pocket  an  Eng- 
lish sovereign  that  I  carry  as  a  lucky-piece,  and 
prepared  to  spin  it  in  the  air. 

Von  Boobenstein,  as  he  saw  it,  broke  into  a 
sort  of  hoarse  shriek. 

"Gold!  gold!"  he  cried.     "Give  it  to  me!" 

"What?"  I  exclaimed. 

"A  piece  of  gold,"  he  panted.  "Give  it  to 
me,  give  it  to  me,  quick.  I  know  a  place  where 
we  can  buy  bread  with  it.  Real  bread — not 
tickets — food — give  me  the  gold — gold — for 
bread — we  can  get  bread.  I  am  starving — gold 
—bread." 

And  as  he  spoke  his  hoarse  voice  seemed 
29 


Further  Foolishness 


to  grow  louder  and  louder  in  my  ears — the 
sounds  of  the  street  were  hushed — a  sudden 
darkness  fell — and  a  wind  swept  among  the 
trees  of  the  Jllee  of  Victory — moaning — and 
a  thousand,  a  myriad  voices  seemed  to  my  ear 
to  take  up  the  cry — 

"Gold!     Bread!     We  are  starving." 

Then  I  woke  up. 


30 


//. — Abdul  Aziz  Has  His 
An  Adventure  in  the  Yildiz  Kiosk 

COME,  come,  Abdul,"  I  said,  putting 
my  hand,  not  unkindly,  on  his  shoul- 
der.    "Tell  me  all  about  It." 

But  he  only  broke  out  Into  renewed 
sobbing. 

"There,  there,"  I  continued,  soothingly. 
"Don't  cry,  Abdul.  Look!  Here's  a  lovely 
narghlleh  for  you  to  smoke,  with  a  gold  mouth- 
piece. See !  Wouldn't  you  like  a  little  latakia, 
eh?  And  here's  a  little  toy  Armenian — look! 
See  his  head  come  off — snick!  There,  it's  on 
again,  snick!  now  it's  off!  look,  Abdul!" 
But  still  he  sobbed. 

His   fez  had   fallen   over  his  ears  and  his 
face  was  all  smudged  with  tears. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  stop  him. 
I  looked  about  In  vain  from  the  little  alcove 
of  the  hall  of  the  Yildiz  Kiosk  where  we  were 

31 


Further  Foolishness 


sitting  on  a  Persian  bench  under  a  lemon  tree. 
There  was  no  one  in  sight.  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  do. 

In  the  Yildiz  Kiosk — I  think  that  was  the 
name  of  the  place — I  scarcely  as  yet  knew  my 
way  about.  In  fact,  I  had  only  been  in  it  a 
few  hours.  I  had  come  there — as  I  should  have 
explained  in  commencing — in  order  to  try  to 
pick  up  information  as  to  the  exact  condition 
of  things  in  Turkey.  For  this  purpose  I  had 
assumed  the  character  and  disguise  of  an  Eng- 
lish governess.  I  had  long  since  remarked  that 
an  English  governess  is  able  to  go  anywhere, 
see  everything,  penetrate  the  interior  of  any 
royal  palace  and  move  to  and  fro  as  she  pleases 
without  hindrance  and  without  insult.  No  bar- 
rier can  stop  her.  Every  royal  court,  however 
splendid  or  however  exclusive,  is  glad  to  get 
her.  She  dines  with  the  King  or  the  Emperor 
as  a  matter  of  course.  All  state  secrets  are 
freely  confided  to  her  and  all  military  plans 
are  submitted  to  her  judgment.  Then  after  a 
three  weeks'  residence,  she  leaves  the  court 
and  writes  a  book  of  disclosures. 

32 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


This  was  now  my  plan. 

And  up  to  the  moment  of  which  I  speak,  it 
had  worked  perfectly. 

I  had  found  my  way  through  Turkey  to  the 
royal  capital  without  difficulty.  The  poke 
bonnet,  the  spectacles  and  the  long  black  dress 
which  I  had  assumed  had  proved  an  ample  pro- 
tection. None  of  the  rude  Turkish  soldiers 
among  whom  I  had  passed  had  offered  to  lay 
a  hand  on  me.  This  tribute  I  am  compelled 
to  pay  to  the  splendid  morality  of  the  Turks. 
They  wouldn't  touch  me. 

Access  to  the  Yildiz  Kiosk  and  to  the  Sultan 
had  proved  equally  easy.  I  had  merely  to  ob- 
tain an  interview  with  Codfish  Pasha,  the  Sec- 
retary of  War,  whom  I  found  a  charming  man 
of  great  intelligence,  a  master  of  three  or  four 
languages  (as  he  himself  informed  me),  and 
able  to  count  up  to  seventeen. 

"You  wish,"  he  said,  "to  be  appointed  as 
English,  or  rather  Canadian  governess  to  the 
Sultan?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"And  your  object?" 
33 


Further  Foolishness 


"I  propose  to  write  a  book  of  disclosures." 

"Excellent,"  said  Codfish. 

An  hour  later  I  found  myself,  as  I  have  said, 
in  a  flagstoned  hall  of  the  Yildiz  Kiosk,  with 
the  task  of  amusing  and  entertaining  the  Sul- 
tan. 

Of  the  difficulty  of  this  task  I  had  formed  no 
conception.  Here  I  was  at  the  outset,  with  the 
unhappy  Abdul  bent  and  broken  with  sobs 
which  I  found  no  power  to  check  or  control. 

Naturally,  therefore,  I  found  myself  at  a 
loss.  The  little  man  as  he  sat  on  his  cushions, 
in  his  queer  costume  and  his  long  slippers; 
with  his  fez  fallen  over  his  lemon-coloured 
face,  presented  such  a  pathetic  object  that  I 
could  not  find  the  heart  to  be  stern  with  him. 

"Come,  now,  Abdul,"  I  said,  "be  good!" 

He  paused  a  moment  in  his  crying — 

"Why  do  you  call  me  Abdul?"  he  asked. 
"That  isn't  my  name." 

"Isn't  it?"  I  said.  "I  thought  all  you  Sul- 
tans were  called  Abdul.  Isn't  the  Sultan's 
name  always  Abdul?" 

"Mine  isn't,"  he  whimpered,  "but  it  doesn't 

34 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


matter,"  and  his  face  began  to  crinkle  up  with 
renewed  weeping.  "Call  me  anything  you 
like.  It  doesn't  matter.  Anyway  I'd  rather 
be  called  Abdul  than  be  called  a  W-W-War 
Lord  and  a  G-G-General  when  they  won't  let 
me  have  any  say  at  all " 

And  with  that  the  little  Sultan  burst  Into  un- 
restrained crying. 

"Abdul,"  I  said  firmly,  "If  you  don't  stop 
crying,  I'll  go  and  fetch  one  of  the  Bashi  Ba- 
zooks  to  take  you  away." 

The  little  Sultan  found  his  voice  again. 
"There  aren't  any  Bub-Bub-BashI  Bazooks 
left,"  he  sobbed. 

"None  left?"  I  exclaimed.    "Where  are  they 

■DM 
gone : 

"They've  t-t-taken  them  all  aw-w-way " 

"Who  have?" 


"The  G-G-G-Germans,"  sobbed  Abdul. 
"And  they've  sent  them  all  to  P-P-P-Poland." 

"Come,  come,  Abdul,"  I  said,  straightening 
him  up  a  little  as  he  sat.  "Brace  up!  Be  a 
Turk!  Be  a  Mohammedan!  Don't  act  like 
a  Christian." 

35 


Further  Foolishness 


This  seemed  to  touch  his  pride.  He  made  a 
great  effort  to  be  calm.  I  could  hear  him  mut- 
tering to  himself,  "Allah,  lUallah,  Mohammed 
rasoul  Allah !"  He  said  this  over  a  good  many 
times,  while  I  took  advantage  of  the  pause  to 
get  his  fez  a  little  straighter  and  wipe  his  face. 

"How  many  times  have  I  said  it?"  he  asked 
presently. 

"Twenty." 

"Twenty?  That  ought  to  be  enough, 
shouldn't  it?"  said  the  Sultan,  regaining  him- 
self a  little.  "Isn't  prayer  helpful,  eh?  Give 
me  a  smoke?" 

I  filled  his  narghileh  for  him,  and  he  began 
to  suck  blue  smoke  out  of  it  with  a  certain  con- 
tentment, while  the  rose  water  bubbled  in  the 
bowl  below. 

"Now,  Abdul,"  I  said,  as  I  straightened  up 
his  cushions  and  made  him  a  little  more  com- 
fortable, "what  is  it?     What  is  the  matter?" 

"Why,"    he    answered,    ''they've    all 


g-g-gone 

"Now,   don't   cry!     Tell   me   properly." 
36 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"They've  all  gone  b-b-back  on  me!  Boo! 
Hoo!" 

"Who  have?    Who've  gone  back  en  you?" 

"Why,  everybody.  The  English  and  the 
French  and  everybody " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  with  increas- 
ing interest.  "Tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean. 
Whatever  you  say  I  will  hold  sacred,  of 
course." 

I  saw  my  way  already  to  a  volume  of  in- 
teresting disclosures. 

"They  used  to  treat  me  so  differently,"  Ab- 
dul went  on,  and  his  sobbing  ceased  as  he  con- 
tinued— "They  used  to  call  me  the  Bully  Boy 
of  the  Bosphorus.  They  said  I  was  the  Guar- 
dian of  the  Golden  Gate.  They  used  to  let  me 
kill  all  the  Armenians  I  liked  and  nobody  was 
allowed  to  collect  debts  from  me  and  every 
now  and  then  they  used  to  send  me  the  nicest 
ultimatums — Oh!  you  don't  know,"  he  broke 
off,  "how  nice  it  used  to  be  here  in  the  Yildiz 
in  the  old  days !  We  used  all  to  sit  round  here, 
In  this  very  hall,  me  and  the  diplomats — and 
play  games,   such   as   'Ultimatum,   ultimatum, 

37 


Further  Foolishness 


who's  got  the  ultimatum?' — Oh,  say,  it  was  so 
nice  and  peaceful !  And  we  used  to  have  big 
dinners  and  conferences,  especially  after  the 
military  manoeuvres  and  the  autumn  massacres 
• — me  and  the  diplomats,  all  with  stars  and 
orders,  and  me  in  my  white  fez  with  a  copper 
tassel — and  hold  discussions  about  how  to  re- 
form Macedonia." 

"But  you  spoilt  it  all,  Abdul,"  I  protested. 

"I  didn't,  I  didn't!"  he  exclaimed  almost 
angrily. 

"I'd  have  gone  on  for  ever.  It  was  all  so 
nice.  They  used  to  present  me — the  diplomats 
did — with  what  they  called  their  Minimum, 
and  then  we  (I  mean  Codfish  Pasha  and  me) 
had  to  draft  in  return  our  Maximum — see? — 
and  then  we  all  had  to  get  together  again  and 
frame  a  status  quo.'''' 

"But  that  couldn't  go  on  for  ever,"  I  urged. 

"Why  not?"  said  Abdul.  "It  was  a  great 
system.  We  invented  it,  but  everybody  was 
beginning  to  copy  it.  In  fact,  we  were  leading 
the  world,  before  all  this  trouble  came.    Didn't 

38 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


you  have  anything  of  our  system  in  your  coun- 
try— what  do  you  call  it — in  Canada?" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted;  "now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  we  were  getting  into  it.  But  the 
war  has  changed  it  all " 

"Exactly,"  said  Abdul.  "There  you  are  I 
All  changed!  The  good  old  days  gone  for- 
ever!" 

"But  surely,"  I  said,  "you  still  have  friends 
— the  Bulgarians." 

The  Sultan's  little  black  eyes  flashed  with 
anger  as  he  withdrew  his  pipe  for  a  moment 
from  his  mouth. 

"The  low  scoundrels!"  he  said  between  his 
teeth.     "The  traitors!" 

"Why,  they're  your  Allies!" 

"Yes,  Allah  destroy  them!  They  are. 
They've  come  over  to  our  side.  After  cen- 
turies of  fighting  they  refuse  to  play  fair  any 
longer.  They're  on  our  side!  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing?  Bah!  But,  of  course," 
he  added  more  quietly,  "we  shall  massacre 
them  just  the  same.  We  shall  insist,  in  the 
terms   of   peace,   on   retaining   our   rights   of 

39 


Further  Foolishness 


massacre.  But  then,  no  doubt,  all  the  nations 
will." 

"But  you  have  the  Germans "  I  began. 

"Hush,  hush,"  said  Abdul,  laying  his  hand 
on  my  arm.     "Some  one  might  hear." 

"You  have  the  Germans,"  I  repeated. 

"The  Germans,"  said  Abdul,  and  his  voice 
sounded  in  a  queer  sing-song  like  that  of  a 
child  repeating  a  lesson,  "The  Germans  are 
my  noble  friends,  the  Germans  are  my  power- 
ful allies,  the  Kaiser  is  my  good  brother,  the 
Reichstag  is  my  foster  sister:  I  love  the  Ger- 
mans: I  hate  the  English:  I  love  the  Kaiser: 
the  Kaiser  loves  me " 

"Stop,  stop,  Abdul,"  I  said,  "who  taught 
you  all  that?" 

Abdul  looked  cautiously  around. 

^^They  did,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.  "There's 
a  lot  more  of  it.  Would  you  like  me  to 
recite  some  more?  Or,  no,  no,  what's  the 
good?  I've  no  heart  for  reciting  any  longer." 
And  at  this  Abdul  fell  to  weeping  again. 

"But  Abdul,"  I  said,  "I  don't  understand. 
Why  are  you  so  distressed  just  now?    All  this 

40 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 

has  been  going  on  for  over  two  years.     Why 
are  you  so  worried  just  now?" 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  the  little  Sultan  in  surprise, 
"you  haven't  heard!  I  see — you've  only  just 
arrived.  Why,  to-day  is  the  last  day.  After 
to-day  it  is  all  over." 

"Last  day  for  what?"  I  asked. 

"For  intervention.  For  the  intervention  of 
the  United  States.  The  only  thing  that  can 
save  us.  It  was  to  have  come  to-day,  by  the 
end  of  this  full  moon — our  astrologers  had 
predicted  it — Smith  Pasha,  Minister  under 
Heaven  of  the  United  States,  had  promised, 
if  it  came,  to  send  it  to  us  at  the  earliest  mo- 
ment. How  do  they  send  it,  do  you  know,  in 
a  box,  or  in  a  paper?" 

"Stop,"  I  said  as  my  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  footsteps.  "There's  some  one  coming 
now." 

The  sound  of  slippered  feet  was  distinctly 
heard  on  the  stones  in  the  outer  corridor. 

Abdul  listened  intently  a  moment. 

"I  know  his  slippers,"  he  said. 

"Who  is  it?" 

41 


Further  Foolishness 


"It  Is  my  chief  secretary,  Toomuch  Koffi. 
Yes,  here  he  comes." 

As  the  Sultan  spoke  the  doors  swung  open 
and  there  entered  an  aged  Turk,  in  a  flowing 
gown  and  coloured  turban,  with  a  melancholy 
yellow  face,  and  a  long  white  beard  that  swept 
to  his  girdle. 

"Who  do  you  say  he  is?"  I  whispered  to 
Abdul. 

"My  chief  secretary,"  he  whispered  back. 
"Toomuch  Koffi." 

"He  looks  like  it,"  I  murmured. 

Meantime,  Toomuch  Koffi  had  advanced 
across  the  broad  flagstones  of  the  hall  where 
we  were  sitting.  With  hands  lifted  he  salaamed 
four  times — east,  west,  north,  and  south. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  I  whispered. 

"It  means,"  said  the  Sultan,  with  visible  agi- 
tation, "that  he  has  a  communication  of  the 
greatest  importance  and  urgency,  which  will 
not  brook  a  moment's  delay." 

"Well,  then,  why  doesn't  he  get  a  move  on?" 
I  whispered. 

"Hush,"  said  Abdul. 
42 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


Toomuch  Koffi  now  straightened  himself 
from  his  last  salaam  and  spoke. 

"Allah  is  great!"  he  said. 

"And  Mohammed  Is  his  prophet,"  rejoined 
the  Sultan. 

"Allah  protect  you !  And  make  your  face 
shine,"  said  Toomuch. 

"Allah  lengthen  your  beard,"  said  the  Sul- 
tan, and  he  added  aside  to  me  in  English,  which 
Toomuch  Koffi  evidently  did  not  understand, 
"I'm  all  eagerness  to  know  what  it  is — it's 
something  big,  for  sure" — the  little  man  was 
quite  quivering  with  excitement,  as  he  spoke. 
"Do  you  know  what  I  think  It  is?  I  think  it 
must  be  the  American  Intervention.  The 
United  States  is  going  to  intervene.  Eh? 
What?     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Then  hurry  him  up,"  I  urged. 

"I  can't,"  said  Abdul.  "It  is  Impossible  in 
Turkey  to  do  business  like  that.  He  must  have 
some  coffee  first  and  then  he  must  pray  and 
then  there  must  be  an  interchange  of  pres- 
ents." 

43 


Further  Foolishness 


I  groaned,  for  I  was  getting  as  Impatient  as 
Abdiil  himself. 

"Do  you  not  do  public  business  like  that  in 
Canada?"  the  Sultan  continued. 

*'We  used  to.  But  we  have  got  over  it,"  I 
said. 

Meantime  a  slippered  attendant  had  entered 
and  placed  a  cushion  for  the  secretary,  and 
in  front  of  it  a  little  Persian  stool  on  which  he 
put  a  quaint  cup  filled  with  coffee  black  as  ink. 

A  similar  cup  was  placed  before  the  Sultan. 

"Drink!"   said  Abdul. 

"Not  first,  until  the  lips  of  the  Commander 
of  the  Faithful " 

"He  means  'after  you,'  "  I  said.  "Hurry 
up,  Abdul." 

Abdul  took  a  sip.     "Allah  is  good,"  he  said., 

"And  all  things  are  of  Allah,"  rejoined  Too- 
much. 

Abdul  unpinned  a  glittering  jewel  from  his 
robe  and  threw  it  to  the  feet  of  Toomuch. 
"Take  this  poor  bauble,"  he  said. 

Toomuch  Koffi  in  return  took  from  his  wrist 
a  solid  bangle  of  beaten  gold.     "Accept  this 

44 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


mean  gift  from  your  humble  servant,"  he  said. 

"Right!"  said  Abdul,  speaking  in  a  changed 
voice  as  the  ceremonies  ended.  "Now,  then, 
Toomuch,  what  is  it?  Hurry  up.  Be  quick. 
What  is  the  matter?" 

Toomuch  rose  to  his  feet,  lifted  his  hands 
high  in  the  air  with  the  palms  facing  the  Sul- 
tan. 

"One  is  without,"  he  said. 

"Without  what?"  I  asked  eagerly  of  the 
Sultan. 

"Without — outside.  Don't  you  understand 
Turkish?  What  you  call  in  English — A  gen- 
tleman to  see  me." 

"And  did  he  make  all  that  fuss  and  delay 
over  that?"  I  asked  in  disgust.  "Why  with 
us  in  Canada,  at  one  of  the  public  departments 
at  Ottawa,  all  that  one  would  have  to  do  would 
be  simply  to  send  in  a  card,  get  it  certified,  then 
simply  wait  in  an  anteroom,  simply  read  a 
newspaper,  send  in  another  card,  wait  a  little, 
then  simply  send  in  a  third  card,  and  then  sim- 
ply " 

"Pshaw!"  said  Abdul,  "the  cards  might  be 
45 


Further  Foolishness 


poisoned.  Our  system  Is  best.  Speak  on, 
Toomuch.  Who  Is  without?  Is  it  perchance 
a  messenger  from  Smith  Pasha,  Minister  un- 
der Heaven  of  the  United  States?" 

"Alas,  no!"  said  Toomuch.  "It  is  HE.  It 
is  THE  LARGE  ONE!" 

As  he  spoke  he  rolled  his  eyes  upward  with 
a  gesture  of  despair. 

"HE!"  cried  Abdul,  and  a  look  of  terror 
convulsed  his  face.  "The  Large  One !  Shut 
him  out!  Call  the  Chief  Eunuch  and  the  Ma- 
jor Domo  of  the  Harem!     Let  him  not  in!" 

"Alas,"  said  Toomuch.  "He  threw  them 
out  of  the  window.    Lo !  he  is  here;  he  enters." 

As  the  Secretary  spoke  a  double  door  at  the 
end  of  the  hall  swung  noisily  open,  at  the  blow 
of  an  imperious  fist,  and  with  a  rattle  of  arms 
and  accoutrements  a  man  of  gigantic  stature, 
wearing  full  military  uniform  and  a  spiked  hel- 
met, strode  into  the  room. 

As  he  entered,  an  attendant  who  accom- 
panied him,  also  in  a  uniform  and  a  spiked  hel- 
met, called  in  a  loud  strident  voice  that  re- 
sounded to  the  arches  of  the  hall. 

46 


Peace,  War,,  and  Politics 


"His  High  Excellenz  Feld  Marechal  von 
der  Doppelbauch,  Spezial  Representant  of  His 
Majestat  William  II,  Deutscher  Kaiser  and 
King  of  England!" 

Abdul  collapsed  into  a  little  heap.  His  fez 
fell  over  his  face.  Toomuch  Koffi  had  slunk 
into  a  corner. 

Von  der  Doppelbauch  strode  noisily  for- 
ward and  came  to  a  stand  in  front  of  Abdul 
with  a  click  and  rattle  after  the  Prussian  fash- 
ion. 

"Majestat,"  he  said  in  a  deep,  thunderous 
voice,  "I  greet  you.  I  bow  low  before  you. 
Salaam !     I  kiss  the  floor  at  your  feet." 

But  in  reality  he  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  He 
stood  to  the  full  height  of  his  six  feet  six  and 
glowered  about  him. 

"Salaam!"  said  Abdul,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"But  who  is  this?"  added  the  Field  Marshal, 
looking  angrily  at  me.  My  costume,  or  rather 
my  disguise,  for,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  wearing 
a  poke  bonnet  with  a  plain  black  dress,  seemed 
to  puzzle  him. 

47 


Further  Foolishness 


"My  new  governess,"  said  Abdul.  "She  came 
this  morning.     She  is  a  professor " 

"Bah!"  said  the  Field  Marshal,  "a  woman 
a  professor!     Bah!" 

"No,  no,"  said  Abdul  in  protest,  and  it 
seemed  decent  of  the  little  creature  to  stick  up 
for  me — "She's  all  right,  she  is  interesting  and 
knows  a  great  deal.     She's  from  Canada !" 

"What!"  exclaimed  Von  der  Doppelbauch. 
"From  Canada!  But  stop!  It  seems  to  me 
that  Canada  is  a  country  that  we  are  at  war 
with.  Let  me  think,  Canada?  I  must  look  at 
my  list" — he  pulled  out  a  little  set  of  tablets 
as  he  spoke — "let  me  see — Britain,  Great 
Britain,  British  North  America,  British  Guiana, 
British  Nigeria — ha !  of  course,  under  K — 
Kandahar,  Korfu — no,  I  don't  seem  to  see  it 
— Fritz!"  he  called  to  the  aide  de  camp  who 
had  announced  him — "telegraph  at  once  to  the 
Topographical  Staff  at  Berlin  and  find  out  if 
we  are  at  war  with  Canada.  If  we  are" — he 
pointed  at  me — "throw  her  into  the  Bosphorus. 
If  we  are  not,  treat  her  with  every  considera- 
tion,   with    every    distinguished    consideration. 

48 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


But  see  that  she  doesn't  get  away.  Keep  her 
tight,  till  we  are  at  war  with  Canada,  as  no 
doubt  we  shall  be,  wherever  it  is,  and  then 
throw  her  into  the  Bosphorus." 

The  aide  clicked  his  heels  and  withdrew. 

"And  now,  your  majesty,"  continued  the 
Field  Marshal,  turning  abruptly  to  the  Sultan,^ 
"I  bring  you  good  news." 

"More  good  news,"  groaned  Abdul  miser- 
ably, winding  his  clasped  fingers  to  and  fro. 
"Alas!  good  news  again!" 

"First,"  said  Von  der  Doppelbauch,  "the 
Kaiser  has  raised  you  to  the  order  of  the  Black 
Duck.     Here  is  your  feather." 

"Another  feather,"  moaned  Abdul.  "Here, 
Toomuch,  take  it  and  put  it  among  the  feath- 
ers!" 

"Secondly,"  went  on  the  Field  Marshal, 
checking  off  his  items  as  he  spoke,  "your  con- 
tribution, your  personal  contribution  to  His 
Majesty's  Twenty-third  Imperial  Loan  is  ac- 
cepted." 

"I  didn't  make  any!"  sobbed  Abdul. 

"No  difference,"  said  Von  der  Doppelbauch. 
49 


Further  Foolishness 


"It  Is  accepted  anyway.  The  telegram  has 
just  arrived  accepting  all  your  money.  My 
assistants  are  packing  It  up  outside." 

Abdul  collapsed  still  further  Into  his  cush- 
ions. 

"Third,  and  this  will  rejoice  your  Majesty's 
heart:     Your  troops  are  again  victorious!" 

"Victorious!"  moaned  Abdul.  "Victorious 
again !  I  knew  they  would  be  !  I  suppose  they 
are  all  dead  as  usual?" 

"They  are,"  said  the  Marshal.  "Their 
souls,"  he  added  reverently,  with  a  military 
salute,  "are  In  Heaven!" 

"No,  no,"  gasped  Abdul,  "not  in  Heaven! 
Don't  say  that!  Not  in  Heaven!  Say  that  they 
are  in  Nishvana,  our  Turkish  paradise?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  Field  Marshal  grave- 
ly. "This  is  a  Christian  war.  The  Kaiser  has 
insisted  on  their  going  to  Heaven." 

The  Sultan  bowed  his  head.  "Ishmlllah!" 
he  murmured.     "It  is  the  will  of  Allah." 

"But  they  did  not  die  without  glory,"  went 
on  the  Field  Marshal.  "Their  victory  was 
complete.    Set  it  out  to  yourself,"  and  here  his 

50 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


eyes  glittered  with  soldierly  passion — "There 
stood  your  troops — ten  thousand!  In  front 
of  them  the  Russians — a  hundred  thousand. 
What  did  your  men  do?  Did  they  pause?  No, 
they  charged!" 

"They  chargedP''  cried  the  Sultan  in  misery. 
"Don't  say  that!  Have  they  charged  again! 
Just  Allah!"  he  added,  turning  to  Toomuch. 
"They  have  charged  again  !  And  we  must  pay, 
we  shall  have  to  pay — we  always  do  when  they 
charge.  Alas,  alas,  they  have  charged  again. 
Everything  is  charged!" 

"But  how  nobly,"  rejoined  the  Prussian. 
"Imagine  it  to  yourself!  Here,  beside  this 
stool,  let  us  say,  were  your  men.  There,  across 
the  cushion,  were  the  Russians.  All  the  ground 
between  was  mined.  We  knew  it.  Our  soldiers 
knew  it.  Even  our  staff  knew  it.  Even  Prinz 
Rattelwitz  Halfstuff,  our  commander,  knew  it. 
But  your  soldiers  did  not.  What  did  our 
Prinz  do?  The  Prinz  called  for  volunteers 
to  charge  over  the  ground.  There  was  a  great 
shout — from  our  men,  our  German  regiments. 
He  called  again.     There  was  another  shout. 

SI 


Further  Foolishness 


He  called  still  again.  There  was  a  third  shout. 
Think  of  it !  And  again  Prinz  Halfstuff  called 
and  again  they  shouted." 

"Who  shouted?"  asked  the  Sultan  gloomily. 

"Our  men,  our  Germans." 

"Did  my  Turks   shout?"   asked  Abdul. 

"They  did  not.  They  were  too  busy  tighten- 
ing their  belts  and  fixing  cheir  bayonets.  But 
our  generous  fellows  shouted  for  them.  Then 
Prinz  Halfstuff  called  out  'The  place  of  honour 
is  for  our  Turkish  brothers.  Let  them  charge !' 
And  all  our  men  shouted  again." 

"And  they  charged?" 

"They  did — and  were  all  gloriously  blown 
up.  A  magnificent  victory.  The  blowing  up 
of  the  mines  blocked  all  the  ground,  checked 
the  Russians  and  enabled  our  men — by  a  pre- 
arranged rush — to  advance  backwards — tak- 
ing up  a  new  strategic " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Abdul,  "I  know — I  have 
read  of  it,  alas !  only  too  often.  And  they  are 
dead!  Toomuch,"  he  added  quietly,  drawing  a 
little  pouch  from  his  girdle,  "take  this  pouch  of 
rubies  and  give  them  to  the  wives  of  the  dead 

52 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


general  of  our  division — one  to  each.  He  had, 
I  think,  but  seventeen.  His  walk  was  quiet. 
Allah  give  him  peace," 

"Stop,"  said  Von  der  Doppelbauch.  "I  will 
take  the  rubies.  I  myself  will  charge  myself 
with  the  task  and  will  myself  see  that  I  do  it 
myself.     Give  me  them." 

"Be  It  so,  Toomuch,"  assented  the  Sultan 
humbly.     "Give  them  to  him." 

"And  now,"  continued  the  Field  Marshal, 
"there  is  yet  one  other  thing  further  still  more." 
He  drew  a  roll  of  paper  from  his  pocket. 
"Toomuch,"  he  said,  "bring  me  yonder  little 
table,  with  Ink,  quills  and  sand.  I  have  here 
a  manifesto  for  His  Majesty  to  sign." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Abdul  In  renewed  alarm. 
"Not  another  manifesto.  Not  that!  I  signed 
one  only  last  week." 

"This  is  a  new  one,"  said  the  Field  Marshal, 
as  he  lifted  the  table  that  Toomuch  had 
brought,  into  place  In  front  of  the  Sultan,  and 
spread  out  the  papers  on  it.  "This  is  a  bet- 
ter one.     This  is  the  best  one  yet." 

"What  does  It  say?"   said  Abdul,   peering 

53 


Further  Foolishness 


at  It  miserably.  "I  can't  read  it.  It's  not  in 
Turkish." 

"It  is  your  last  word  of  proud  defiance  to 
all  your  enemies,"  said  the  Marshal. 

"No,  no,"  whined  Abdul.  "Not  defiance; 
they  might  not  understand." 

"Here  you  declare,"  went  on  the  Field 
Marshal,  with  his  big  finger  on  the  text,  "your 
irrevocable  purpose.  You  swear  that  rather 
than  submit  you  will  hurl  yourself  into  the  Bos- 
phorus." 

"Where  does  it  say  that?"  screamed  Abdul. 

"Here  beside  my  thumb." 

"I  can't  do  it,  I  can't  do  it,"  moaned  the  lit- 
tle Sultan. 

"More  than  that  further,"  went  on  the  Prus- 
sian, quite  undisturbed,  "you  state  hereby 
your  fixed  resolve,  rather  than  give  in,  to  cast 
yourself  from  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  top- 
most minaret  of  this  palace." 

"Oh,  not  the  highest;  don't  make  it  the  high- 
est," moaned  Abdul. 

"Your  purpose  is  fixed.  Nothing  can  alter 
it.     Unless  the  Allied  Powers  withdraw  from 

54 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


their  advance  on  Constantinople  you  swear  that 
within  one  hour  you  will  fill  your  mouth  with 
mud  and  burn  yourself  alive." 

"Just  Allah!"  cried  the  Sultan,  "does  it  say 
all  that?" 

"All  that,"  said  Von  der  Doppelbauch.  "All 
that  within  an  hour.  It  is  a  splendid  defiance. 
The  Kaiser  himself  has  seen  it  and  admired  it. 
'These,'  he  said,  'are  the  words  of  a  man!'  " 

"Did  he  say  that?"  said  Abdul,  evidently 
flattered.  "And  is  he  too  about  to  hurl  him- 
self off  his  minaret?" 

"For  the  moment,  no,"  replied  Von  der  Dop- 
pelbauch, sternly. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Abdul,  and  to  my  sur- 
prise he  began  picking  up  the  pen  and  making 
ready.  "I  suppose  if  I  must  sign  it,  I  must" — 
then  he  marked  the  paper  and  sprinkled  it  with 
sand.  "For  one  hour?  Well,  well,"  he  mur- 
mured. "Von  der  Doppelbauch  Pasha,"  he 
added  with  dignity,  "you  are  permitted  to  with- 
draw. Commend  me  to  your  Imperial  Master, 
my  brother.  Tell  him  that  when  I  am  gone, 
he  may  have  Constantinople,  provided  only" — 

55 


Further  Foolishness 


and  a  certain  slyness  appeared  In  the  Sultan's 
eye,  "that  he  can  get  it.     Farewell." 

The  Field  Marshal,  majestic  as  ever,  gath- 
ered up  the  manifesto,  clicked  his  heels  together 
and  withdrew. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  I  had  ex- 
pected the  little  Sultan  to  fall  into  hopeless  col- 
lapse. 

Not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  a  look  of  pe- 
culiar  cheerfulness   spread   over   his   features. 

He  refilled  his  narghileh  and  began  quietly 
smoking  at  it. 

"Toomuch,"  he  said,  quite  cheerfully,  "I 
see  there  is  no  hope." 

"Alas!"  said  the  secretary. 

"I  have  now,"  went  on  the  Sultan,  "appar- 
ently but  sixty  minutes  in  front  of  me.  I  had 
hoped  that  the  intervention  of  the  United  States 
might  have  saved  me.  It  has  not.  Instead 
of  It,  I  meet  my  fate.  Well,  well,  it  Is  Kis- 
met.    I  bow  to  It." 

He  smoked  away  quite  cheerfully. 

Presently  he  paused. 

"Toomuch,"  he  said,  "kindly  go  and  fetch 
56 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


me  a  sharp  knife,  double-edged  if  possible,  but 
sharp,  and  a  stout  bowstring." 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  remained  a  mere  spec- 
tator of  what  had  happened.  But  now  I 
feared  that  I  was  on  the  brink  of  witnessing 
an  awful  tragedy. 

"Good  Heavens,  Abdul!"  I  said,  "what  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

"Do?  Why  kill  myself,  of  course,"  the  Sul- 
tan answered,  pausing  for  a  moment  in  an  in- 
terval of  his  cheerful  smoking.  "What  else 
should  I  do?  What  else  is  there  to  do?  I 
shall  first  stab  myself  in  the  stomach  and  then 
throttle  myself  with  the  bowstring.  In  half  an 
hour  I  shall  be  in  paradise.  Toomuch,  summon 
hither  from  the  inner  harem  Fatima  and  Fal- 
loola;  they  shall  sit  beside  me  and  sing  to  me 
at  the  last  hour,  for  I  love  them  well,  and 
later  they  too  shall  voyage  with  me  to  para- 
dise. See  to  it  that  they  are  both  thrown  a 
little  later  into  the  Bosphorus,  for  my  heart 
yearns  towards  the  two  of  them,"  and  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "especially  perhaps  towards  Fa- 
tima, but  I  have  never  quite  made  up  my  mind." 

57 


Further  Foolishness 


The  Sultan  sat  back  with  a  little  gurgle  of 
contentment,  the  rose  water  bubbling  soothingly 
in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  secretary  again. 

"Toomuch,"  he  said,  "you  will  at  the  same 
time  send  a  bowstring  to  Codfish  Pasha,  my 
Chief  of  War — it  is  our  sign,  you  know,"  he 
added  in  explanation  to  me — "it  gives  Codfish 
leave  to  kill  himself.  And,  Toomuch,  send  a 
bowstring  also  to  Beefhash  Pasha,  my  Vizier, 
— good  fellow,  he  will  expect  it,  and  to  Mac- 
pherson  Effendi,  my  financial  adviser.  Let 
them  all  have  bowstrings." 

"Stop,  stop,"  I  pleaded.  "I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Why  surely,"  said  the  little  man,  in  evi- 
dent astonishment.  "It  is  plain  enough.  What 
would  you  do  in  Canada?  When  your  min- 
isters— as  I  think  you  call  them — fail  and  no 
longer  enjoy  your  support — do  you  not  send 
them  bowstrings?" 

"Never,"  I  said.  "They  go  out  of  office, 
but " 

"And  they  do  not  disembowel  themselves  on 
58 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


their  retirement?  Have  they  not  that  priv- 
ilege?" 

"Never!"  I  said.     "What  an  idea!" 

"The  ways  of  the  infidel,"  said  the  little  Sul- 
tan, calmly  resuming  his  pipe,  "are  beyond  the 
compass  of  the  true  intelligence  of  the  Faith- 
ful. Yet  I  thought  it  was  so  even  as  here. 
I  had  read  in  your  newspapers  that  after  your 
last  election  your  ministers  were  buried  alive 
— buried  under  a  landslide,  was  it  not?  We 
thought  it — here  in  Turkey — a  noble  fate  for 
them." 

"They  crawled  out,"  I  said. 

"Ishmillah!"  ejaculated  Abdul.  "But  go, 
Toomuch.  And  listen — thou  also — for,  in  spite 
of  all,  thou  hast  served  me  well — shalt  have  a 
bowstring." 

"O  master,  master!"  cried  Toomuch,  fall- 
ing on  his  knees  in  gratitude  and  clutching  the 
sole  of  Abdul's  slipper.     "It  is  too  kind." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  the  Sultan.  "Thou  hast 
deserved  it.  And  I  will  go  further.  This 
stranger,  too,  my  governess,  this  professor, 
bring  also  for  the  professor  a  bowstring,  and 

59 


Further  Foolishness 


a  two-bladed  knife!  All  Canada  shall  rejoice 
to  hear  of  it.  The  students  shall  leap  up  like 
young  lambs  at  the  honour  that  will  be  done. 
Bring  the  knife,  Toomuch;  bring  the  knife!" 

"Abdul,"  I  said,  "Abdul,  this  is  too  much. 
I  refuse.  I  am  not  fit.  The  honour  is  too 
great." 

"Not  so,"  said  Abdul.  "I  am  still  Sultan. 
I  insist  upon  it.  For,  listen,  I  have  long  pene- 
trated your  disguise  and  your  kind  design.  I 
saw  it  from  the  first.  You  knew  all  and  came 
to  die  with  me.  It  was  kindly  meant.  But  you 
shall  die  no  common  death;  yours  shall  be  the 
honour  of  the  double  knife — let  it  be  extra 
sharp,  Toomuch — and  the  bowstring." 

"Abdul,"  I  urged,  "It  cannot  be.  You  for- 
get. I  have  an  appointment  to  be  thrown  into 
the  Bosphorus." 

"The  death  of  a  dog!  Never!"  cried  Ab- 
dul. "My  will  is  still  law.  Toomuch,  kill  him 
on  the  spot.  Hit  him  with  the  stool,  throw 
the  coffee  at  him " 

But  at  this  moment  there  were  heard  loud 
cries  and  shouting,  as  in  tones  of  great  glad- 

60 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


ness,  in  the  outer  hall  of  the  palace.  Doors 
swinging  to  and  fro  and  the  sound  of  many 
running  feet.  One  heard  above  all  the  call — 
"It  has  come!     It  has  come!" 

The  Sultan  looked  up  quickly. 

"Toomuch,"  he  said  eagerly  and  anxiously, 
"quick,  see  what  it  is.  Hurry!  hurry!  Haste! 
Do  not  stay  on  ceremony.  Drink  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee, give  me  five  cents — fifty  cents,  anything — 
and  take  leave  and  see  what  it  is." 

But  before  Toomuch  could  reply,  a  turbaned 
attendant  had  already  burst  in  through  the 
door  unannounced  and  thrown  himself  at 
Abdul's  feet. 

"Master!  Master!"  he  cried.  "It  is  here. 
It  has  come."  As  he  spoke  he  held  out  in  one 
hand  a  huge  envelope,  heavy  with  seals.  I 
could  detect  in  great  letters  stamped  across  it 
the  words,  WASHINGTON  and  OFFICE 
OF  THE  SECRETARY  OF  STATE. 

Abdul  seized  and  opened  the  envelope  with 
trembling  hands. 

"It  is  it!"  he  cried — "It  is  sent  by  Smith 
Pasha,  Minister  under  the  Peace  of  Heaven 

6i 


Further  Foolishness 


of  the  United  States.  It  is  the  Intervention.  I 
am  saved." 

Then  there  was  silence  among  us,  breath- 
less and  anxious. 

Abdul  glanced  down  the  missive,  reading  it 
in  silence  to  himself. 

"Oh  noble,"  he  murmured,  "oh  generous! 
It  is  too  much.     Too  splendid  a  lot!" 

"What  does  it  say?" 

"Look,"  said  the  Sultan.  "The  United 
States  has  used  its  good  offices.  It  has  inter- 
vened!    All  is  settled.     My  fate  is  secure." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  "but  what  is  it?" 

"Is  it  believable?"  exclaimed  Abdul.  "It 
appears  that  none  of  the  belligerents  cared 
about  me  at  all.  None  had  designs  upon  me. 
The  war  was  not  made,  as  we  understood.  Too- 
much,  as  an  attempt  to  seize  my  person.  All 
they  wanted  was  Constantinople.  Not  me  at 
all!" 

"Powerful  Allah!"  murmured  Toomuch. 
"Why  was  it  not  so  said?" 

"For  me,"  said  the  Sultan,  still  consulting 
the  letter,  "great  honours  are  prepared!    I  am 

62 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


to  leave  Constantinople — that  is  the  sole  con- 
dition. It  shall  then  belong  to  whoever  can 
get  it.  Nothing  could  be  fairer.  It  always 
has.  I  am  to  have  a  safe  conduct — is  it  not 
noble? — to  the  United  States.  No  one  is  to 
attempt  to  poison  me — is  it  not  generosity  it- 
self?— neither  on  land — nor  even — mark  this 
especially,  Toomuch — on  board  ship.  Nor  is 
any  one  to  throw  me  overboard  or  otherwise 
transport  me  to  paradise." 

"It  passes  belief!"  murmured  Toomuch 
Koffi.     "Allah  is  indeed  good." 

"In  the  United  States  itself,"  went  on  Ab- 
dul, "or,  I  should  say,  themselves,  Toomuch, 
for  are  they  not  innumerable?  I  am  to  have 
a  position  of  the  highest  trust,  power  and  re- 
sponsibility." 

"Is  it  really  possible?"  I  said,  greatly  sur- 
prised. 

"It  is  so  written,"  said  the  Sultan.  "I  am 
to  be  placed  at  the  head — as  the  sole  head  or 
sovereign  of — how  is  it  written? — a  Turkish 
Bath  Establishment  in  New  York.  There  I  am 
to  enjoy  the  same  freedom  and  to  exercise  just 


Further  Foolishness 


as  much — it  is  so  written — exactly  as  much  po- 
litical power  as  I  do  here.    Is  it  not  glorious?" 

"Allah !     Illallah !"  cried  the  secretary. 

"You,  Toomuch,  shall  come  with  me,  for 
there  is  a  post  of  great  importance  placed  at 
my  disposal — so  it  is  written — under  the  title  of 
Rubber  Down.  Toomuch,  let  our  preparations 
be  made  at  once.  Notify  Fatima  and  Falloola. 
Those  two  alone  shall  go.  For  it  is  a  Christian 
country  and  I  bow  to  its  prejudices.  Two,  I 
understand,  is  the  limit.  But  we  must  leave  at 
once." 

The  Sultan  paused  a  moment  and  then  looked 
at  me. 

"And  our  good  friend  here,"  he  added,  "we 
must  leave  to  get  out  of  this  Yildiz  Kiosk  by 
whatsoever  magic  means  he  came  into  it." 

Which  I  did. 

And  I  am  assured,  by  those  who  know,  that 
the  intervention  was  made  good  and  that  Ab- 
dul and  Toomuch  may  be  seen  to  this  day,  or 
to  any  other  day,  moving  to  and  fro  in  their 
slippers  and  turbans  in  their  Turkish  Bath  Em- 
porium at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and < 

64 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


But  stop;  that  would  be  saying  too  much: 
especially  as  Fatima  and  Falloola  occupy  the 
upstairs. 

And  it  is  said  that  Abdul  has  developed  a 
very  special  talent  for  heating  up  the  tempera- 
ture  for  his   Christian  customers. 

Moreover  it  is  the  general  opinion  that 
whether  or  not  the  Kaiser  and  such  people  will 
get  their  deserts,  Abdul  Aziz  has  his. 


6s 


///. — In  Merry  Mexico 


I   STOOD  upon  the  platform  of  the  little 
deserted  railway  station  of  the  frontier 
and  looked  around  at  the  wide  prospect. 
"So  this,"  I  said  to  myself,  "is  Mex- 
ico!" 

About  me  was  the  great  plain  rolling  away 
to  the  Sierras  in  the  background.  The  railroad 
track  traversed  it  in  a  thin  line.  There  were 
no  trees — only  here  and  there  a  clump  of  cac- 
tus or  chapparal,  a  tuft  of  dog-grass  or  a  few 
patches  of  dogwood.  i\t  intervals  in  the  dis- 
tance one  could  see  a  hacienda  standing  in  ma- 
jestic solitude  in  a  cup  of  the  hills.  In  the  blue 
sky  floated  little  banderillos  of  white  cloud, 
while  a  graceful  hidalgo  appeared  poised  on 
a  crag  on  one  leg  with  folded  wings,  or  floated 
lazily  in  the  sky  on  one  wing  with  folded  legs. 
There  was  a  drowsy  buzzing  of  cicadas  half 
asleep  in  the  cactus  cups,  and,  from  some  hid- 

66 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


den  depth  of  the  hills  far  in  the  distance,  the 
tinkling  of  a  mule  bell. 

I  had  seen  it  all  so  often  in  moving  pictures 
that  I  recognised  the  scene  at  once. 

"So  this  is  Mexico?"  I  repeated. 

The  station  building  beside  of  me  was  little 
more  than  a  wooden  shack.  Its  door  was 
closed.  There  was  a  sort  of  ticket  wicket  open- 
ing at  the  side,  but  it  too  was  closed. 

But  as  I  spoke  thus  aloud,  the  wicket  opened. 
There  appeared  in  it  the  head  and  shoulders  of 
a  little  wizened  man,  swarthy  and  with  bright 
eyes  and  pearly  teeth. 

He  wore  a  black  velvet  suit  with  yellow  fac- 
ings, and  a  tall  straw  hat  running  to  a  point.  I 
seemed  to  have  seen  him  a  hundred  times  in 
comic  opera. 

"Can  you  tell  me  when  the  next  train " 

I  began. 


The  little  man  made  a  gesture  of  Spanish 
politeness. 

"Welcome  to  Mexico!"  he  said. 

"Could  you  tell  me "  I  continued. 

"Welcome  to   our   sunny  Mexico!"   he   re- 

67 


Further  Foolishness 


peated — "our  beautiful,  glorious  Mexico.  Her 
heart  throbs  at  the  sight  of  you." 

"Would  you  mind "  I  began  again. 

"Our  beautiful  Mexico,  torn  and  distracted 
as  she  is,  greets  you.  In  the  name  of  the  de 
facto  government,  thrice  welcome.  Su  casaV* 
he  added  with  a  graceful  gesture  indicating  the 
interior  of  his  little  shack.  "Come  in  and 
smoke  cigarettes  and  sleep.  5«  casa!  You  are 
capable  of  Spanish,  is  it  not?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "it  is  not.  But  I  wanted  to 
know  when  the  next  train  for  the  interior " 

"Ah!"  he  rejoined  more  briskly.  "You  ad- 
dress me  as  a  servant  of  the  de  facto  govern- 
ment.    Momentino!     One  moment!" 

He  shut  the  wicket  and  was  gone  a  long 
time.     I  thought  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

But  he  reappeared.  He  had  a  bundle  of 
what  looked  like  railway  time  tables,  very 
ancient  and  worn,  in  his  hand. 

"Did  you  say,"  he  questioned,  "the  fwterior 
or  the  ^:vterior?" 

"The  interior,  please." 

"Ah,  good,  excellent — for  the  interior — " 
68 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


the  little  Mexican  retreated  Into  his  shack  and 
I  could  hear  him  murmuring — i"for  the  in- 
terior, excellent — "  as  he  moved  to  and  fro. 

Presently  he  reappeared,  a  look  of  deep 
sorrow  on  his  face.  "Alas !"  he  said,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  "I  am  desolado.  It  has  gone  I 
The  next  train  has  gone!" 

"Gone!     When?" 

"Alas!  Who  can  tell?  Yesterday,  last 
month?     But  it  has  gone." 

"And  when  will  there  be  another  one?"  I 
asked. 

"Ha  !"  he  said,  resuming  a  brisk  official  man- 
ner. "I  understand.  Having  missed  the  next, 
you  propose  to  take  another  one.  Excellent! 
What  business  enterprise  you  foreigners  have ! 
You  miss  your  train!  What  do  you  do?  Do 
you  abandon  your  journey?  No.  Do  you  sit 
down — do  you  weep?  No.  Do  you  lose  time? 
You  do  not." 

"Excuse  me,"  I  said,  "but  when  is  there  an- 
other train?" 

"That  must  depend,"  said  the  little  official, 
and  as  he  spoke  he  emerged  from  his  house 
69 


Further  Foolishness 


and  stood  beside  me  on  the  platform  fumbling 
among  his  railway  guides.  "The  first  question 
is,  do  you  propose  to  take  a  de  facto  train  or 
a  de  jure  train?" 

"When  do  they  go?"  I  asked. 

"There  is  a  de  jure  train,"  continued  the 
station  master,  peering  into  his  papers,  "at 
two  P.  M. — v^ery  good  train — sleepers  and  din- 
ers— one  at  four,  a  through  train — sleepers, 
observation  car,  dining  car,  corridor  compart- 
ments— that  also  is  a  de  jure  train " 

"But  what  is  the  difference  between  the  de 
jure  and  the  de  factoT^ 

"It's  a  distinction  we  generally  make  in 
Mexico:  the  de  jure  trains  are  those  that  ought 
to  go;  that  is,  in  theory,  they  go.  The  de  facto 
trains  are  those  that  actually  do  go.  It  is  a 
distinction  clearly  established  in  our  cor- 
respondence with  Huedro  Huilson." 

"Do  you  mean  Woodrow  Wilson?" 

"Yes,  Huedro  Huilson,  president — de  jure 
— of  the  United  States." 

"Oh,"  I  said.  "Now  I  understand.  And 
when  will  there  be  a  de  facto  train?" 

70 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"At  any  moment  you  like,"  said  the  little 
official  with  a  bow. 

"But  I  don't  see " 

"Pardon  me — I  have  one  here  behind  the 
shed  on  that  side  track — excuse  me — one  mo- 
ment and  I  will  bring  it." 

He  disappeared  and  I  presently  saw  him 
energetically  pushing  out  from  behind  the  shed 
a  little  railroad  lorry  or  hand  truck. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  as  he  shoved  his  little 
car  on  to  the  main  track,  "this  Is  the  train. 
Seat  yourself.     I,  myself,  will  take  you." 

"And  how  much  shall  I  pay?  What  is  the 
fare  to  the  interior?"  I  questioned. 

The  little  man  waved  the  idea  aside  with  a 
polite  gesture. 

"The  fare,"  he  said,  "let  us  not  speak  of  it. 
Let  us  forget  it.    How  much  money  have  you?" 

"I  have  here,"  I  said,  taking  out  a  roll  of 
bills,  "fifty  dollars " 

"And  that  is  all  you  have?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  let  that  be  the  fare !  Why  should  I 
ask  more?  Were  I  an  American,  I  might;  but 
71 


Further  Foolishness 


in  our  Mexico,  no.  What  you  have  we  take; 
beyond  that  we  ask  nothing.  Let  us  forget  it. 
Good !  And,  now,  would  you  prefer  to  travel 
first,   second,   or  third  class?" 

"First  class,  please,"  I  said. 

"Very  good.  Let  it  be  so."  Here  the  little 
man  took  from  his  pocket  a  red  label  marked 
FIRST  CLASS  and  tied  it  on  the  edge  of  the 
hand  car.  "It  is  more  comfortable,"  he  said. 
"Now  seat  yourself,  seize  hold  of  these  two 
handles  in  front  of  you.  Move  them  back  and 
forward,  thus.  Beyond  that  you  need  do  noth- 
ing. The  working  of  the  car,  other  than  the 
mere  shoving  of  the  handles,  shall  be  my  task. 
Consider  yourself,  in  fact,  senor,  as  my  guest." 

We  took  our  places.  I  applied  myself,  as 
directed,  to  the  handles  and  the  little  car  moved 
forward  across  the  plain. 

"A  glorious  prospect,"  I  said,  as  I  gazed  at 
the  broad  panorama. 

"Magnificof  Is  it  not?"  said  my  companion. 
"Alas!  my  poor  Mexico.  She  wants  nothing 
but  water  to  make  her  the  most  fertile  country 
of  the  globe !    Water  and  soil,  those  only,  and 

72 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


she  would  excel  all  others.  Give  her  but  water, 
soil,  light,  heat,  capital  and  labour,  and  what 
could  she  not  be !  And  what  do  we  see :  dis- 
traction, revolution,  destruction — pardon  me, 
will  you  please  stop  the  car  a  moment?  I  wish 
to  tear  up  a  little  of  the  track  behind  us." 

I  did  as  directed.  My  companion  descended 
and  with  a  little  bar  that  he  took  from  beneath 
the  car,  unloosed  a  few  of  the  rails  of  the  light 
track  and  laid  them  beside  the  road. 

"It  is  our  custom,"  he  explained,  as  he 
climbed  on  board  again.  "We  Mexicans,  when 
we  move  to  and  fro,  always  tear  up  the  track 
behind  us.  But  what  was  I  saying?  Ah,  yes 
— destruction,  desolation,  alas,  our  Mexico!" 

He  looked  sadly  up  at  the  sky. 

"You  speak,"  I  said,  "like  a  patriot.  May 
I  ask  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Raymon,"  he  answered,  with  a 
bow,  "Raymon  Domenico  y  MIraflores  de  las 
Gracias." 

"And  may  I  call  you  simply  Raymon?" 

"I  shall  be  delirious  with  pleasure  if  you 
will  do  so,"  he  answered,  "and  dare  I  ask  you, 

73 


Further  Foolishness 


in  return,  your  business  in  our  beautiful  coun- 
try?" 

The  car,  as  we  were  speaking,  had  entered 
upon  a  long  and  gentle  down  grade  across  the 
plain,  so  that  it  ran  without  great  effort  on  my 
part. 

"Certainly,"  I  said.  "I'm  going  into  the 
interior  to  see  General  Villa  !" 

At  the  shock  of  the  name,  Raymon  nearly 
fell  off  the  car. 

"Villa!  General  Francesco  Villa!  It  is  not 
possible !" 

The  little  man  was  shivering  with  evident 
fear. 

"See  him!  See  Villa!  Not  possible.  Let 
me  show  you  a  picture  of  him  instead?  But 
approach  him — it  is  not  possible !  He  shoots 
everybody  at  sight!" 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said.  "I  have  a  written 
safe  conduct  that  protects  me." 

"From  whom?" 

"Here,"  I  said,  "look  at  them — I  have  two." 

Raymon  took  the  documents  I  gave  him  and 
read  aloud. 

74 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"  'The  bearer  is  on  an  Important  mission 
connected  with  American  rights  in  Mexico.  If 
any  one  shoots  him  he  will  be  held  to  a  strict 
accountability.  W.  W.'  Ah!  Excellent!  He 
will  be  compelled  to  send  in  an  itemised  ac- 
count. Excellent !  And  this  other,  let  me  see. 
'If  anybody  interferes  with  the  bearer,  I  will 
knock  his  face  in.  T.  R.'  Admirable  1  This 
is,  if  anything,  better  than  the  other  for  use 
in  our  country.  It  appeals  to  our  quick  Mexi- 
can natures.  It  is,  as  we  say,  simpatico.  It 
touches  us." 

"It  Is  meant  to,"  I  said. 

"And  may  I  ask,"  said  Raymon,  "the  nature 
of  your  business  with  Villa?" 

"We  are  old  friends,"  I  answered.  "I  used 
to  know  him  years  ago  when  he  kept  a  Mexican 
cigar  store  In  Buffalo.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
I  might  be  able  to  help  the  cause  of  peaceful 
intervention.  I  have  already  had  a  certain  ex- 
perience in  Turkey.  I  am  commissioned  to 
make  General  Villa  an  offer." 

"I  see,"  said  Raymon.  "In  that  case.  If 
we  are  to  find  Villa  let  us  make  all  haste  for- 

75 


Further  Foolishness 


ward.  And  first  we  must  direct  ourselves  yon- 
der"— he  pointed  in  a  vague  way  towards  the 
mountains,  "where  we  must  presently  leave  our 
car  and  go  on  foot,  to  the  camp  of  General 
Carranza." 

"Carranza  I"  I  exclaimed.  "But  he  is  fight- 
ing Villa!" 

"Exactly.  It  is  possible — not  certain — but 
possible,  that  he  knows  where  Villa  is.  In  our 
Mexico  when  two  of  our  generalistas  are  fight- 
ing in  the  mountains,  they  keep  coming  across 
one  another.     It  is  hard  to  avoid  it." 

"Good,"  I  said.     "Let  us  go  forward." 

It  was  two  days  later  that  we  reached  Car- 
ranza's  camp  in  the  mountains. 

We  found  him  just  at  dusk  seated  at  a  little 
table  beneath  a  tree. 

His  followers  were  all  about,  picketing  their 
horses  and  lighting  fires. 

The  General,  buried  in  a  book  before  him, 
noticed  neither  the  movements  of  his  own  men 
nor  our  approach. 

76 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


I  must  say  that  I  was  surprised  beyond  meas- 
ure at  his  appearance. 

The  popular  idea  of  General  Carranza  as  a 
rude  bandit  chief  is  entirely  erroneous. 

I  saw  before  me  a  quiet,  scholarly-looking 
man,  bearing  every  mark  of  culture  and  refine- 
ment. His  head  was  bowed  over  the  book  in 
front  of  him,  which  I  noticed  with  astonishment 
and  admiration  was  Todhiinters  Algebra. 
Close  at  his  hand  I  observed  a  work  on  Decimal 
Fractions,  while,  from  time  to  time,  I  saw  the 
General  lift  his  eyes  and  glance  keenly  at  a 
multiplication  table  that  hung  on  a  bough  be- 
side him. 

"You  must  wait  a  few  moments,"  said  an 
aide  de  camp,  who  stood  beside  us.  "The  Gen- 
eral is  at  work  on  a  simultaneous  equation !" 

"Is  it  possible?"  I  said  in  astonishment. 

The  aide  de  camp  smiled.  "Soldiering  to- 
day, my  dear  Senor,"  he  said,  "is  an  exact  sci- 
ence. On  this  equation  will  depend  our  entire 
food  supply  for  the  next  week." 

"When  will  he  get  it  done?"  I  asked 
anxiously. 

77 


Further  Foolishness 


"Simultaneously,"    said   the   aide    de   camp. 

The  General  looked  up  at  this  moment  and 
saw  us. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"Your  Excellency,"  said  the  aide  de  camp, 
"there  is  a  stranger  here  on  a  visit  of  investi- 
gation to  Mexico." 

"Shoot  him!"  said  the  General,  and  turned 
quickly  to  his  work. 

The  aide  de  camp  saluted. 

"When?"  he  asked. 

"As  soon  as  he  likes,"  said  the  General. 

"You  are  fortunate,  indeed,"  said  the  aide 
de  camp  in  a  tone  of  animation,  as  he  led  me 
away,  still  accompanied  by  Raymon.  "You 
might  have  been  kept  waiting  round  for  days. 
Let  us  get  ready  at  once.  You  would  like  to 
be  shot,  would  you  not,  smoking  a  cigarette, 
and  standing  beside  your  grave?  Luckily,  we 
have  one  ready.  Now  if  you  will  wait  a  mo- 
ment, I  will  bring  the  photographer  and  his 
machine.  There  is  still  light  enough,  I  think. 
What  would  you  like  it  called?  The  Fate  of  a 
Spy?    That's  good,  isn't  it?    Our  syndicate  can 

78 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


always  work  up  that  into  a  two-reel  film.  All 
the  rest  of  it — the  camp,  the  mountains,  the 
general,  the  funeral  and  so  on — we  can  do  to- 
morrow without  you." 

He  was  all  eagerness  as  he  spoke. 

"One  moment,"  I  interrupted;  "I  am  sure 
there  is  some  mistake.  I  only  wished  to  present 
certain  papers  and  get  a  safe  conduct  from  the 
General  to  go  and  see  Villa." 

The  aide  de  camp  stopped  abruptly. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "You  are  not  here  for  a 
picture.  A  thousand  pardons.  Give  me  your 
papers — one  moment — I  will  return  to  the  Gen- 
eral and  explain." 

He  vanished,  and  Raymon  and  I  waited  in 
the  growing  dusk. 

"No  doubt  the  General  supposed,"  explained 
Raymon,  as  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  "that  you 
were  here  for  las  machinas,  the  moving  pic- 
tures." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  aide  de  camp  returned. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "the  General  will  see  you 
now." 

We  returned  to  where  we  had  left  Carranza. 
79 


Further  Foolishness 


The  General  rose  to  meet  me  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  with  a  gesture  of  simple 
cordiality. 

"You  must  pardon  my  error,"  he  said. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  said. 

"It  appears  you  do  not  desire  to  be  shot." 

"Not  at  present." 

"Later,  perhaps,"  said  the  General.  "On 
your  return,  no  doubt,  provided,"  he  added 
with  grave  courtesy  that  sat  well  on  him,  "that 
you  do  return.  My  aide  de  camp  shall  make 
a  note  of  it.  But  at  present  you  wish  to  be 
guided  to  Francesco  Villa?" 

"If  it  is  possible." 

"Quite  easy.  He  is  at  present  near  here.  In 
fact  much  nearer  than  he  has  any  right  to  be." 
The  General  frowned.  "We  found  this  spot 
first.  The  light  is  excellent  and  the  mountains, 
as  you  have  seen,  are  wonderful  for  our  pic- 
tures. This  is,  by  every  rule  of  decency,  our 
scenery.  Villa  has  no  right  to  it.  This  is  our 
revolution" — the  General  spoke  with  rising 
animation — "not  his.  W^hen  you  see  the  fel- 
low, tell  him  from  me — or  tell  his  manager — 

80 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


that  he  must  either  move  his  revolutiop  further 
away — or,  by  Heaven,  I'll — I'll  use  force 
against  him.  But  stop,"  he  checked  himself. 
"You  wish  to  see  Villa.  Good.  You  have 
only  to  follow  the  straight  track  over  the  moun- 
tain there.  He  is  just  beyond,  at  the  little 
village  in  the  hollow.  El  Corazon  de  las  Quer- 
tas." 

The  General  shook  hands  and  seated  himself 
again  at  his  work.  The  interview  was  at  an 
end.     We  withdrew. 

The  next  morning  we  followed  without  dif- 
ficulty the  path  indicated.  A  few  hours'  walk 
over  the  mountain  pass  brought  us  to  a  little 
straggling  village  of  adobe  houses,  sleeping 
drowsily  in  the  sun. 

There  were  but  few  signs  of  life  in  its  one 
street — a  mule  here  and  there  tethered  in  the 
sun — and  one  or  two  Mexicans  drowsily  smok- 
ing in  the  shade. 

One  building  only,  evidently  newly  made, 
and  of  lumber,  had  a  decidedly  American  ap- 
pearance.    Its  doorway  bore  the  sign  GEN* 

8i 


Further  Foolishness 


ERAL  OFFICES  OF  THE  COMPANY,  and 

under  it  the  notice  KEEP  OUT,  while  on  one 
of  its  windows  was  painted  GENERAL  MAN- 
AGER and  below  it  the  legend  NO  ADMIS- 
SION, and  on  the  other— SECRETARY'S 
OFFICE:  GO  AJVAY. 

We  therefore  entered  at  once. 

"General  Francesco  Villa?"  said  a  clerk, 
evidently  American.  "Yes,  he's  here  all  right. 
At  least,  this  is  the  office." 

"And  where  is  the  General?"  I  asked. 

The  clerk  turned  to  an  assistant  at  a  desk 
in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

"Where's  Frank  working  this  morning?"  he 
asked. 

"Over  down  in  the  gulch,"  said  the  other, 
turning  round  for  a  moment.  "There's  an  at- 
tack of  American  cavalry  this  morning." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forgot,"  said  the  chief  clerk.  "I 
thought  it  was  the  Indian  Massacre,  but  I 
guess  that's  for  to-morrow.  Go  straight  to  the 
end  of  the  street  and  turn  left  about  a  half  a 
mile  and  you'll  find  the  boys  down  there." 

We  thanked  him  and  withdrew. 
82 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


We  passed  across  the  open  plaza,  and  went 
down  a  narrow  side  road,  bordered  here  and 
there  with  adobe  houses,  and  so  out  into  the 
open  country.  Here  the  hills  rose  again  and 
the  road  that  we  followed  wound  sharply  round 
a  turn  into  a  deep  gorge,  bordered  with  rocks 
and  sage  brush.  We  had  no  sooner  turned  the 
curve  of  the  road  than  we  came  upon  a  scene 
of  great  activity.  Men  in  Mexican  costume 
were  running  to  and  fro  apparently  arranging 
a  sort  of  barricade  at  the  side  of  the  road. 
Others  seemed  to  be  climbing  the  rocks  on  the 
further  side  of  the  gorge,  as  if  seeking  points 
of  advantage.  I  noticed  that  all  were  armed 
with  rifles  and  machetes  and  presented  a  for- 
midable appearance.  Of  Villa  himself  I  could 
see  nothing.  But  there  was  a  grim  reality  about 
the  glittering  knives,  the  rifles  and  the  maxim 
guns  that  I  saw  concealed  in  the  sage  brush  be- 
side the  road. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  of  a  man  who  was 
standing  idle,  watching  the  scene  from  the 
same  side  of  the  road  as  ourselves. 

83 


Further  Foolishness 


"Attack  of  American  cavalry,"  he  said  non- 
chalantly. 

"Here!"  I  gasped. 

"Yep,  in  about  ten  minutes:  soon  as  they 
are  ready." 

"Where's  Villa?" 

"It's  him  they're  attacking.  They  chase  him 
here,  see!  This  is  an  ambush.  Villa  rounds 
on  them  right  here,  and  they  fight  to  a  finish!" 

"Great  Heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "How  do 
you  know  that?" 

"Know  it?  Why  because  I  seen  it.  Ain't 
they  been  trying  it  out  for  three  days?  Why, 
I'd  be  in  it  myself  only  I'm  off  work — got  a 
sore  toe  yesterday — horse  stepped  on  it." 

All  this  was,  of  course,  quite  unintelligible 
to  me. 

"But  it's  right  here  where  they're  going  to 
fight?"  I  asked. 

"Sure,"  said  the  American,  as  he  moved 
carelessly  aside,  "as  soon  as  the  boss  gets  it  all 
ready." 

I  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  a  heavy- 
looking  man  in  an  American  tweed  suit  and  a 

84 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


white  plug  hat,  moving  to  and  fro  and  calling 
out  directions  with  an  air  of  authority. 

"Here!"  he  shouted,  "what  in  h 1  are 

you  doing  with  that  machine  gun?  You've  got 
it  clean  out  of  focus.  Here,  Jose,  come  in 
closer — that's  right — steady  there  now,  and 
don't  forget,  at  the  second  whistle  you  and  Pete 
are  dead.  Here,  you,  Pete,  how  in  thunder  do 
you  think  you  can  die  there?  You're  all  out  of 
the  picture  and  hidden  by  that  there  sage  bush. 
That's  no  place  to  die.  And,  boys,  remember 
one  thing,  now,  die  slow.  Ed" — he  turned 
and  called  apparently  to  some  one  invisible  be- 
hind the  rocks — "when  them  two  boys  is  killed, 
turn  her  round  on  them,  slew  her  round  good 
and  get  them  centre  focus.  Now  then,  are  you 
all  set?     Ready?" 

At  this  moment  the  speaker  turned  and 
saw  Raymon  and  myself.  "Here,  youse,"  he 
shouted,  "get  further  back;  you're  in  the  picture. 
Or,  say,  no,  stay  right  where  you  are.  You," 
he  said,  pointing  to  me,  "stay  right  where  you 
are  and  I'll  give  you  a  dollar  to  just  hold  that 
horror;  you  understand;  just  keep  on  register- 

85 


Further  Foolishness 


ing  it.  Don't  do  another  thing;  just  register 
that  face." 

His  words  were  meaningless  to  me.  I  had 
never  known  before  that  it  was  possible  to 
make  money  by  merely  registering  my  face. 

"No,  no,"  cried  out  Raymon,  "my  friend  here 
is  not  wanting  work.  He  has  a  message,  a  mes- 
sage of  great  Importance  for  General  Villa." 

"Well,"  called  back  the  boss,  "he'll  have  to 
wait.  We  can't  stop  now.  All  ready,  boys? 
One — two — now !" 

And  with  that  he  put  a  whistle  to  his  lips 
and  blew  a  long  shrill  blast. 

Then  in  a  moment  the  whole  scene  was  trans- 
formed. Rifle  shots  rang  out  from  every  crag 
and  bush  that  bordered  the  gully. 

A  wild  scamper  of  horses'  hoofs  was  heard 
and  in  a  moment  there  came  tearing  down  the 
road  a  whole  troop  of  mounted  Mexicans,  evi- 
dently in  flight,  for  they  turned  and  fired  from 
their  saddles  as  they  rode.  The  horses  that 
carried  them  were  wild  with  excitement  and 
flecked  with  foam.  The  Mexican  cavalry  men 
shouted  and  yelled,  brandishing  their  machetes 

86 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


and  firing  their  revolvers.  Here  and  there  a 
horse  and  rider  fell  to  the  ground  in  a  great 
whirl  of  sand  and  dust.  In  the  thick  of  the 
press,  a  leader  of  ferocious  aspect,  mounted 
upon  a  gigantic  black  horse,  waved  his  som- 
brero about  his  head. 

"Villa — it  is  Villa!"  cried  Raymon,  tense 
with  excitement;  "is  he  not  magnificof  But 
look!      Look — the    Americanos!      They    are 


commg 


It  was  a  glorious  sight  to  see  them  as  they 
rode  madly  on  the  heels  of  the  Mexicans — a 
whole  company  of  American  cavalry,  their 
horses  shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  men  bent  low 
in  their  saddles,  their  carbines  gripped  in  their 
hands.  They  rode  in  squadrons  and  in  line, 
not  like  the  shouting,  confused  mass  of  the  Mex- 
icans— but  steady,  disciplined,  irresistible. 

On  the  right  flank  in  front  a  grey-haired  of- 
ficer steadied  the  charging  line.  The  excite- 
ment of  it  was  maddening. 

"Go  it,"  I  shouted  in  uncontrollable  emotion. 
"Your  Mexicans  are  licked,  Raymon,  they're 
no  good!" 

87 


Further  Foolishness 


"But  look!"  said  Raymon;  "see — the  am- 
bush, the  ambuscada !" 

For  as  they  reached  the  centre  of  the  gorge 
in  front  of  us  the  Mexicans  suddenly  checked 
their  horses,  bringing  them  plunging  on  their 
haunches  in  the  dust,  and  then  swung  round 
upon  their  pursuers,  while  from  every  crag  and 
bush  at  the  side  of  the  gorge  the  concealed 
riflemen  sprang  into  view — and  the  sputtering 
of  the  machine  guns  swept  the  advancing  col- 
umn with  a  volley. 

We  could  see  the  American  line  checked  as 
with  the  buffet  of  a  great  wave,  men  and  horses 
rolling  in  the  road.  Through  the  smoke  one 
saw  the  grey-haired  leader — dismounted,  his 
uniform  torn,  his  hat  gone,  but  still  brandish- 
ing his  sword  and  calling  his  orders  to  his  men, 
his  face  as  one  caught  in  a  flash  of  sunlight, 
steady  and  fearless.  His  words  I  could  not 
hear,  but  one  saw  the  American  cavalry,  still 
unbroken,  dismount,  throw  themselves  behind 
their  horses,  and  fire  with  steady  aim  into  the 
mass  of  the  Mexicans.  We  could  see  the  Mex- 
icans in  front  of  where  we  stood  falling  thick 

88 


PeacCj,  War,  and  Politics 


and  fast,  in  little  huddled  bundles  of  colour, 
kicking  the  sand.  The  man  Pete  had  gone 
down  right  in  the  foreground  and  was  breath- 
ing out  his  soul  before  our  eyes. 

"Well  done,"  I  shouted.  "Go  to  It,  boys! 
You  can  lick  'em  yet!  Hurrah  for  the  United 
States.  Look,  Raymon,  look!  They've  shot 
down  the  crew  of  the  machine  guns.  See,  see 
— the  Mexicans  are  turning  to  run — at  'em, 
boys! — they're  waving  the  American  flag! 
There  it  is  in  all  the  thick  of  the  smoke !  Hark ! 
There's  the  bugle  call  to  mount  again !  They're 
going  to  charge  again!     Here  they  come!" 

As  the  American  cavalry  came  tearing  for- 
ward, the  Mexicans  leaped  from  their  places 
with  gestures  of  mingled  rage  and  terror  as  if 
about  to  break  and  run. 

The  battle,  had  it  continued,  could  have  but 
one  end. 

But  at  this  moment  we  heard  from  the  town 
behind  us  the  long  sustained  note  of  a  steam 
whistle  blowing  the  hour  of  noon. 

In  an  instant  the  firing  ceased. 

The  battle  stopped.     The  Mexicans  picked 
89 


Further  Foolishness 


themselves  up  off  the  ground  and  began  brush- 
ing off  the  dust  from  their  black  velvet  jackets. 
The  American  cavalry  reined  in  their  horses. 
Dead  Pete  came  to  life.  General  Villa  and  the 
American  leader  and  a  number  of  others 
strolled  over  towards  the  boss,  who  stood  be- 
side the  fence  vociferating  his  comments, 

"That  won't  do!"  he  was  shouting.  "That 
won't  do!  Where  in  blazes  was  that  infernal 
Sister  of  Mercy?  Miss  Jenkinson!"  and  he 
called  to  a  tall  girl,  whom  I  now  noticed  for 
the  first  time  among  the  crowd,  wearing  a  sort 
of  khaki  costume  and  a  short  skirt  and  carry- 
ing a  water  bottle  in  a  strap.  "You  never  got 
into  the  picture  at  all.  I  want  you  right  in 
there  among  the  horses,  under  their  feet." 

"Land  sakes!"  said  the  Sister  of  Mercy. 
"You  ain't  no  right  to  ask  me  to  go  in  there 
among  them  horses  and  be  trampled." 

"Ain't  you  paid  to  be  trampled?"  said  the 
manager  angrily.  Then  as  he  caught  sight  of 
Villa  he  broke  off  and  said:  "Frank,  you  boys 
done  fine.  It's  going  to  be  a  good  act,  all  right. 
But  it  ain't  just  got  the  right  amount  of  ginger 

90 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


in  It  yet.  We'll  try  her  over  once  again,  any- 
way." 

"Now,  boys,"  he  continued,  calling  out  to 
the  crowd  with  a  voice  like  a  megaphone,  "this 

afternoon  at  three-thirty Hospital  scene. 

I  only  want  the  wounded,  the  doctors  and  the 
Sisters  of  Mercy.  All  the  rest  of  youse  is  free 
till  ten  to-morrow — for  the  Indian  Massacre. 
Everybody  up  for  that." 

It  was  an  hour  or  two  later  that  I  had  my 
interview  with  Villa  in  a  back  room  of  the  lit- 
tle posada,  or  inn,  of  the  town.  The  General 
had  removed  his  ferocious  wig  of  straight  black 
hair,  and  substituted  a  check  suit  for  his  war- 
like costume.  He  had  washed  the  darker  part 
of  the  paint  off  his  face — in  fact,  he  looked 
once  again  the  same  Frank  Villa  that  I  used  to 
know  when  he  kept  his  Mexican  cigar  store  in 
Buffalo. 

"Well,  Frank,"  I  said,  "I'm  afraid  I  came 
down  here  under  a  misunderstanding." 

"Looks  like  it,"  said  the  General,  as  he  rolled 
a  cigarette. 

91 


Further  Foolishness 


"And  you  wouldn't  care  to  go  back  even  for 
the  offer  that  I  am  commissioned  to  make — 
your  old  job  back  again,  and  half  the  profits 
on  a  new  cigar  to  be  called  the  Francesco 
Villa?" 

The  General  shook  his  head. 

"It  sounds  good,  all  right,"  he  said,  "but 
this  moving-picture  business  is  better." 

"I  see,"  I  said,  "I  hadn't  understood.  I 
thought  there  really  was  a  revolution  here  in 
Mexico." 

"No,"  said  Villa,  shaking  his  head,  "been 
no  revolution  down  here  for  years — not  since 
Diaz.  The  picture  companies  came  in  and 
took  the  whole  thing  over;  they  made  us  a  fair 
offer — so  much  a  reel  straight  out,  and  a  roy- 
alty, and  let  us  divide  up  the  territory  as  we 
liked.  The  first  film  we  done  was  the  bombard- 
ment of  Vera  Cruz — say,  that  was  a  dandy — 
did  you  see  it?" 

"No,"  I  said. 

"They  had  us  all  in  that,"  he  continued.  "I 
done  an  American  Marine.  Lots  of  people 
think  it  all  real  when  they  see  it." 

92 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"Why,"  I  said,  "nearly  everybody  does. 
Even  the  President " 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  knows,"  said  Villa,  "but,  you 
see,  there's  tons  of  money  in  it  and  it's  good 
for  business,  and  he's  too  decent  a  man  to  give 
it  away.  Say,  I  heard  the  boys  saying  there's 
a  war  in  Europe,  I  wonder  what  company 
got  that  up,  eh?  But  I  don't  believe  it'll  draw. 
There  ain't  the  scenery  for  it  that  we  have  in 
Mexico." 

"Alas!"  murmured  Raymon.  "Our  beauti- 
ful Mexico.  To  what  is  she  fallen!  Needing 
only  water,  air,  light  and  soil  to  make  her " 

"Come  on,  Raymon,"  I  said,  "let's  go  home." 


93 


IV. — Over  the  Grape  Juice,  or, 
The  Peace  Makers 


CHARACTERS 

Mr.  W.  Jennings  Bryan  Mr.  Norman  Angell 

Dr.  David  Starr  Jordan  A  Lady  Pacifist 

A  Philanthropist  .  A  Negro  President 

An  Eminent  Divine  The  Man  on  the  Street 

The  General  Public  And  many  others 

WAR,"  said  the  Negro  President  of 
Haiti,    "is    a    sad    spectacle.      It 
shames  our  polite  civilisation." 
As  he  spoke  he  looked  about 
him  at  the  assembled  company  around  the  huge 
dinner  table,  glittering  with  cut  glass  and  white 
linen,  and  brilliant  with  hot-house  flowers. 

"A  sad  spectacle,"  he  repeated,  rolling  his 
big  eyes  in  his  black  and  yellow  face  that  was 

94 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


melancholy   with    the    broken    pathos    of    the 
African  race. 

The  occasion  was  a  notable  one.  It  was  the 
banquet  of  the  Peace  Makers'  Conference  of 
1 9 17,  and  the  company  gathered  about  the 
board  was  as  notable  as  it  was  numerous. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  the  genial  Mr.  Jen- 
nings Bryan  presided  as  host,  his  broad  counte- 
nance beaming  with  amiability,  and  a  tall 
flagon  of  grape  juice  standing  beside  his  hand. 
A  little  further  down  the  table  one  saw  the 
benevolent  head  and  placid  physiognomy  of 
Mr.  Norman  Angell,  bowed  forward  as  if  In 
deep  calculation.  Within  earshot  of  Mr. 
Bryan,  but  not  listening  to  him,  one  recognised 
without  the  slightest  difiiculty  the  great  ichthy- 
ologist. Dr.  David  Starr  Jordan,  director  in 
chief  of  the  World's  Peace  Foundation,  while 
the  bland  features  of  a  gentleman  from  China, 
and  the  presence  of  a  yellow  delegate  from  the 
Mosquito  Coast,  gave  ample  evidence  that  the 
company  had  been  gathered  together  without 
reference  to  color,  race,  religion,  education,  or 
other  prejudices  whatsoever. 

95 


Further  Foolishness 


But  it  would  be  out  of  the  question  to  indi- 
cate by  name  the  whole  of  the  notable  assem- 
blage. Indeed,  certain  of  the  guests,  while  car- 
rying in  their  faces  and  attitudes  something 
strangely  and  elusively  familiar,  seemed  in  a 
sense  to  be  nameless,  and  to  represent  rather 
types  and  abstractions  than  actual  personal- 
ities. Such  was  the  case,  for  instance,  with  a 
female  member  of  the  company,  seated  in  a 
place  of  honour  near  the  host,  whose  demure 
garb  and  gentle  countenance  seemed  to  indi- 
cate her  as  a  Lady  Pacifist,  but  denied  all  fur- 
ther identification.  The  mild,  ecclesiastical 
features  of  a  second  guest,  so  entirely  Chris- 
tian in  its  expression  as  to  be  almost  devoid  of 
expression  altogether,  marked  him  at  once  as 
An  Eminent  Divine,  but  while  puzzlingly  sug- 
gestive of  an  actual  and  well-known  person, 
seemed  to  elude  exact  recognition.  His  accent, 
when  he  presently  spoke,  stamped  him  as  Brit- 
ish and  his  garb  was  that  of  the  Established 
Church.  Another  guest  appeared  to  answer 
to  the  general  designation  of  Capitalist  or  Phi- 
lanthropist, and  seemed  from  his  prehensible 

96 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


grasp  upon  his  knife  and  fork  to  typify  the 
Money  Power.  In  front  of  this  guest,  doubt- 
less with  a  view  of  indicating  his  extreme  wealth 
and  the  consideration  in  which  he  stood,  was 
placed  a  floral  decoration  representing  a  broken 
bank,  with  the  figure  of  a  ruined  depositor  en- 
twined among  the  debris. 

Of  these  nameless  guests,  two  Individuals 
alone,  from  the  very  insignificance  of  their  ap- 
pearance, from  their  plain  dress,  unsuited  to  the 
occasion,  and  from  the  puzzled  expression  of 
their  faces,  seemed  out  of  harmony  with  the 
galaxy  of  distinction  which  surrounded  them. 
They  seemed  to  speak  only  to  one  another,  and 
even  that  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  an  ap- 
preciative chorus  to  what  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany were  saying;  while  the  manner  In  which 
they  rubbed  their  hands  together  and  hung  upon 
the  words  of  the  other  speakers  In  humble  ex- 
pectancy seemed  to  Imply  that  they  were  pres- 
ent In  the  hope  of  gathering  rather  than  shed- 
ding light.  To  these  two  humble  and  obsequious 
guests  no  attention  whatever  was  paid,  though 
it  was  understood,  by  those  who  knew,  that 

97 


Further  Foolishness 


their  names  were  The  General  Public  and  The 
Man  on  the  Street. 

"A  sad  spectacle,"  said  the  Negro  President, 
and  he  sighed  as  he  spoke.  "One  wonders  If  our 
civilisation.  If  our  moral  standards  themselves, 
are  slipping  from  us."  Then,  half  in  reverie, 
or  as  If  overcome  by  the  melancholy  of  his  own 
thought,  he  lifted  a  spoon  from  the  table  and 
slid  it  gently  Into  the  bosom  of  his  faded  uni- 
form. 

"Put  back  that  spoon!"  called  The  Lady 
Pacifist  sharply. 

"Pardon  !"  said  the  Negro  President  humbly, 
as  he  put  it  back.  The  humiliation  of  genera- 
tions of  servitude  was  In  his  voice. 

"Come,  come,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jennings 
Bryan  cheerfully,  "try  a  little  more  of  the  grape 
juice : 

"Does  It  Intoxicate?"  asked  the  President. 

"Never,"  answered  Mr.  Bryan.  "Rest  as- 
sured of  that.  I  can  guarantee  It.  The  grape 
is  picked  in  the  dark.  It  is  then  carried,  still 
in  the  dark,  to  the  testing  room.  There  every 
particle  of  alcohol  Is  removed.     Try  it" 

98 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"Thank  you,"  said  the  President.  "I  am  no 
longer  thirsty." 

"Will  anybody  have  some  more  of  the  grape 
juice?"  asked  Mr.  Bryan,  running  his  eye  along 
the  ranks  of  the  guests. 

No  one  spoke. 

"Will  anybody  have  some  more  ground  pea- 
nuts?" 

No  one  moved. 

"Or  does  anybody  want  any  more  of  the 
shredded  tan  bark?  No?  Or  will  somebody 
have  another  spoonful  of  sunflower  seeds?" 

There  was  still  no  sign  of  assent. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Bryan,  "the 
banquet,  as  such,  is  over,  and  we  now  come  to 
the  more  serious  part  of  our  business.  I  need 
hardly  tell  you  that  we  are  here  for  a  serious 
purpose.  We  are  here  to  do  good.  That  I 
know  is  enough  to  enlist  the  ardent  sympathy 
of  everybody  present." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent. 

"Personally,"  said  The  Lady  Pacifist,  "I  do 
nothing  else." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  the  guest  who  has  been 

99 


Further  Foolishness 


designated  The  Philanthropist,  "whether  I  am 
producing  oil,  or  making  steel,  or  building  mo- 
tor cars." 

"Does  he  build  motor  cars?"  whispered  the 
humble  person  called  The  Man  on  the  Street 
to  his  fellow.  The  General  Public. 

"All  great  philanthropists  do  things  like 
that,"  answered  his  friend.  "They  do  it  as  a 
social  service,  so  as  to  benefit  humanity;  any 
money  they  make  is  just  an  accident.  They 
don't  really  care  about  it  a  bit.  Listen  to  him. 
He's  going  to  say  so." 

"Indeed,  our  business  itself,"  The  Philan- 
thropist continued,  while  his  face  lighted  up 
with  unselfish  enthusiasm,  "our  business  it- 
self  " 

"Hush,  hushl"  said  Mr.  Bryan  gently.  "We 
know " 

"Our  business  itself,"  persisted  The  Philan- 
thropist, "is  one  great  piece  of  philanthropy." 

Tears  gathered  in  his  eyes. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Bryan  firmly,  "we 
must  get  to  business.  Our  friend  here,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  to  the  company  at  large  and  in- 

100 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


dicating  the  Negro  President  on  his  right,  "has 
come  to  us  in  great  distress.  His  beautiful 
island  of  Haiti  is  and  has  been  for  many  years 
overwhelmed  in  civil  war.  Now  he  learns  that 
not  only  Haiti,  but  also  Europe  is  engulfed  in 
conflict.  He  has  heard  that  we  are  making  pro- 
posals for  ending  the  war — indeed,  I  may  say 
are  about  to  declare  that  the  war  in  Europe 
must  stop — I  think  I  am  right,  am  I  not,  my 
friends?" 

There  was  a  general  chorus  of  assent. 

"Naturally  then,"  continued  Mr.  Bryan, 
"our  friend  the  President  of  Haiti,  who  is 
overwhelmed  with  grief  at  what  has  been  hap- 
pening in  his  island,  has  come  to  us  for  help. 
That  is  correct,  is  it  not?" 

"That's  it,  gentleman,"  said  the  Negro  Pres- 
ident, in  a  voice  of  some  emotion,  wiping  the 
sleeve  of  his  faded  uniform  across  his  eyes. 
"The  situation  is  quite  beyond  my  control.  In 
fact,"  he  added,  shaking  his  head  pathetically 
as  he  relapsed  into  more  natural  speech,  "dis 
hyah  chile,  gen'l'n,  is  clean  done  beat  with  it. 
Dey  ain't  doin'  nuflfin'  on  the  island  but  shootin', 

lOI 


Further  Foolishness 


burnin',  and  killin'  somethin'  awful.  Lawd  a 
massy!  it's  just  like  a  real  civilised  country, 
all  right,  now.  Down  in  our  island  we  col- 
oured people  is  feeling  just  as  bad  as  youse 
did  when  all  them  poor  white  folks  was  mur- 
dered on  the  Ltisitanial" 

But  the  Negro  President  had  no  sooner  used 
the  words,  "murdered  on  the  Lusitania,"  than 
a  chorus  of  dissent  and  disapprov^al  broke  out 
all  down  the  table. 

"My  dear  sir,  my  dear  sir,''  protested  Mr. 
Bryan,  "pray  moderate  your  language  a  little, 
if  you  please.  Murdered?  Oh,  dear,  dear 
me,  how  can  we  hope  to  advance  the  cause  of 
peace  if  you  insist  on  using  such  terms?" 

"Ain't  it  that?  Wasn't  it  murder?"  asked 
the  President,  perplexed. 

"We  are  all  agreed  here,"  said  The  Lady 
Pacifist,  "that  it  is  far  better  to  call  it  an  in- 
cident. We  speak  of  the  'Lusttania  Incident,'  " 
she  added  didactically,  "just  as  one  speaks  of 
the  Arabic  Incident,  and  the  Cavell  Incident, 
and  other  episodes  of  the  sort.  It  makes  it 
so  much  easier  to  forget." 

I02 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"True,  quite  true,"  murmured  The  Eminent 
Divine,  "and  then  one  must  remember  that 
there  are  always  two  sides  to  everything.  There 
are  two  sides  to  murder.  We  must  not  let  our- 
selves forget  that  there  is  always  the  mur- 
derer's point  of  view  to  consider." 

But  by  this  time  the  Negro  President  was 
obviously  confused  and  out  of  his  depth.  The 
conversation  had  reached  a  plane  of  civilisa- 
tion which  was  beyond  his  reach. 

The  genial  Mr.  Bryan  saw  fit  to  come  to  his 
rescue. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Bryan  soothingly. 
"Our  friends  here  will  soon  settle  all  your  dif- 
ficulties for  you.  I'm  going  to  ask  them,  one 
after  the  other,  to  advise  you.  They  will  tell 
you  the  various  means  that  they  are  about  to 
apply  to  stop  the  war  in  Europe,  and  you  may 
select  any  that  you  like  for  your  use  in  Haiti. 
We  charge  you  nothing  for  it,  except  of  course 
your  fair  share  of  the  price  of  this  grape  juice 
and  the  shredded  nuts." 

The  President  nodded. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  our  friend  on  my  right" 
103 


Further  Foolishness 


— and  here   Mr.    Bryan   Indicated   The   Lady 
Pacifist — "to  speak  first." 

There  was  a  movement  of  general  expectancy 
and  the  two  obsequious  guests  at  the  foot  of 
the  table,  of  whom  mention  has  been  made, 
were  seen  to  nudge  one  another  and  whisper, 
''Isn't  this  splendid?" 

"You  are  not  asking  me  to  speak  first  merely 
because  I  am  a  woman?"  asked  The  Lady  Pac- 
ifist. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Mr.  Bryan,  with  charming 
tact. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  lady,  adjusting  her 
glasses.  "As  for  stopping  the  war,  I  warn  you, 
as  I  have  warned  the  whole  world,  that  it  may 
be  too  late.  They  should  have  called  me  in 
sooner.  That  was  the  mistake.  If  they  had 
sent  for  me  at  once  and  had  put  my  picture  in 
the  papers  both  in  England  and  Germany  with 
the  inscription  'The  True  Woman  of  To-day,' 
I  doubt  if  any  of  the  men  who  looked  at  it 
would  have  felt  that  it  was  worth  while  to 
fight.  But,  as  things  are,  the  only  advice  I 
can  give  is  this.  Everybody  is  wrong  (except 
104 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


me).  The  Germans  are  a  very  naughty  peo- 
ple. But  the  Belgians  are  worse.  It  was  very, 
very  wicked  of  the  Germans  to  bombard  the 
houses  of  the  Belgians.  But  how  naughty  of 
the  Belgians  to  go  and  sit  in  their  houses  while 
they  were  bombarded.  It  is  to  that  that  I  at- 
tribute— with  my  infallible  sense  of  justice — 
the  dreadful  loss  of  life.  So  you  see  the  only 
conclusion  that  I  can  reach  is  that  everybody  is 
very  naughty  and  that  the  only  remedy  would 
be  to  appoint  me  a  committee — me  and  a  few 
others,  though  the  others  don't  really  matter — 
to  make  a  proper  settlement.  I  hope  I  make 
myself  clear." 

The  Negro   President  shook  his  head  and 
looked  mystified. 

"Us  coloured  folks,"  he  said,  "wouldn't 
quite  understand  that.  We  done  got  the  idea 
that  sometimes  there's  such  a  thing  as  a  quarrel 
that  is  right  and  just."  The  President's  melan- 
choly face  lit  up  with  animation  and  his  voice 
rose  to  the  sonorous  vibration  of  the  negro 
preacher.  "We  learn  that  out  of  the  Bible,  we 
105 


Further  Foolishness 


coloured  folks — we  learn  to  smite  the  ungod- 

ly " 

"Pray,  pray,"  said  Mr.  Bryan  soothingly, 
"don't  introduce  religion,  let  me  beg  of  you. 
That  would  be  fatal.  We  peace-makers  are  all 
agreed  that  there  must  be  no  question  of  re- 
ligion raised." 

"Exactly  so,"  murmured  The  Eminent  Di- 
vine, "my  own  feelings  exactly.  The  name  of 
— of — the  Deity  should  never  be  brought  in. 
It  inflames  people.  Only  a  few  weeks  ago  I 
was  pained  and  grieved  to  the  heart  to  hear  a 
woman  in  one  of  our  London  streets  raving 
that  the  German  Emperor  was  a  murderer — 
her  child  had  been  killed  that  night  by  a  bomb 
from  a  Zeppelin — she  had  its  body  in  a  cloth 
hugged  to  her  breast  as  she  talked — Thank 
Heaven,  they  keep  these  things  out  of  the  news- 
papers— and  she  was  calling  down  God's 
vengeance  on  the  Emperor.  Most  deplorable ! 
Poor  creature,  unable,  I  suppose,  to  realise  the 
Emperor's  exalted  situation,  his  splendid  line- 
age, the  wonderful  talent  with  which  he  can 
draw  pictures  of  the  apostles  with  one  hand 
io6 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


while  he  writes  an  appeal  to  his  Mohammedan 
comrades  with  the  other.  I  dined  with  him 
once,"  he  added,  in  modest  afterthought. 

"I  dined  with  him,  too,"  said  Dr.  Jordan. 
"I  shall  never  forget  the  impression  he  made. 
As  he  entered  the  room  accompanied  by  his 
staff,  the  Emperor  looked  straight  at  me  and 
said  to  one  of  his  aides,  'Who  is  this?'  'This 
is  Dr.  Jordan,'  said  the  officer.  The  Emperor 
put  out  his  hand.  'So  this  is  Dr.  Jordan,'  he 
said.  I  nev^er  witnessed  such  an  exhibition  of 
brain  power  in  my  life.  He  had  seized  my 
name  in  a  moment  and  held  it  for  three  sec- 
onds with  all  the  tenaciousness  of  a  Hohen- 
zoUern." 

"But  may  I,"  continued  the  Director  of  the 
World's  Peace,  "add  a  word  to  what  has  been 
said  to  make  it  still  clearer  to  our  friend?  I 
will  try  to  make  it  as  simple  as  one  of  my  lec- 
tures in  Ichthyology.  I  know  of  nothing  sim- 
pler than  that." 

Everybody  murmured  assent.  The  Negro 
President  put  his. hand  to  his  ear. 

"Theology?"  he  said. 
107 


Further  Foolishness 


"Ichthyology,"  said  Dr.  Jordan.  "It  Is  bet- 
ter. But  just  listen  to  this.  War  is  waste.  It 
destroys  the  tissues.  It  is  exhausting  and  fa- 
tiguing and  may  in  extreme  cases  lead  to  death." 

The  learned  gentleman  sat  back  in  his  seat 
and  took  a  refreshing  drink  of  rain  water  from 
a  glass  beside  him,  while  a  murmur  of  applause 
ran  round  the  table.  It  was  known  and  recog- 
nised that  the  speaker  had  done  more  than 
any  living  man  to  establish  the  fact  that  war 
is  dangerous,  that  gunpowder,  if  heated,  ex- 
plodes, that  fire  burns,  that  fish  swim,  and  other 
great  truths  without  which  the  work  of  the 
peace  endowment  would  appear  futile. 

"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Bryan,  looking  about 
him  with  the  air  of  a  successful  toastmaster, 
"I  am  going  to  ask  our  friend  here  to  give  us 
his  views." 

Renewed  applause  bore  witness  to  the  popu- 
larity of  The  Philanthropist,  whom  Mr.  Bryan 
had  indicated  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

The  Philanthropist  cleared  his  throat. 

"In  our  business "  he  began. 

Mr.  Bryan  plucked  him  gently  by  the  sleeve. 
io8 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"Never  mind  your  business  just  now,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

The  Philanthropist  bowed  in  assent  and  con- 
tinued: "I  will  come  at  once  to  the  subject. 
My  own  feeling  is  that  the  true  way  to  end 
war  is  to  try  to  spread  abroad  in  all  directions 
goodwill  and  brotherly  love." 

"Hear,  hear!"  cried  the  assembled  company. 

"And  the  great  way  to  inspire  brotherly  love 
all  round  is  to  keep  on  getting  richer  and  richer 
till  you  have  so  much  money  that  every  one  loves 
you.     Money,  gentlemen,  is  a  glorious  thing." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Norman  Angell,  who  had 
remained  silent  hitherto,  raised  his  head  from 
his  chest  and  murmured  drowsily: 

"Money,  money,  there  isn't  anything  but 
money.  Money  is  the  only  thing  there  Is. 
Money  and  property,  property  and  money.  If 
you  destroy  it,  it  is  gone;  if  you  smash  it,  it 
isn't  there.     All  the  rest  is  a  great  illus " 

And  with  this  he  dozed  off  again  into  silence. 

"Our  poor  Angell  is  asleep  again,"  said  The 
Lady  Pacifist. 

Mr.  Bryan  shook  his  head.  "He's  been  that 
109 


Further  Foolishness 


way  ever  since  the  war  began, — sleeps  all  the 
time,  and  keeps  muttering  that  there  isn't  any 
war,  that  people  only  imagine  it,  in  fact  that 
it  is  all  an  illusion.  But  I  fear  we  are  inter- 
rupting you,"  he  added,  turning  to  The  Philan- 
thropist. 

"I  was  just  saying,"  continued  that  gentle- 
man, "that  you  can  do  anything  with  money. 
You  can  stop  a  war  with  it  if  you  have  enough 
of  it,  in  ten  minutes.  I  don't  care  what  kind 
of  war  it  is,  or  what  the  people  are  fighting 
for,  whether  they  are  fighting  for  conquest  or 
fighting  for  their  homes  and  their  children,  I 
can  stop  it,  stop  it  absolutely  by  my  grip  on 
money,  without  firing  a  shot  or  incurring  the 
slightest  personal  danger." 

The  Philanthropist  spoke  with  the  greatest 
emphasis,  reaching  out  his  hand  and  clutching 
his  fingers  in  the  air. 

"Yes,  gentlemen,"  he  went  on,  "I  am  speak- 
ing here  not  of  theories  but  of  facts.  This  is 
what  I  am  doing  and  what  I  mean  to  do. 
You've  no  idea  how  amenable  people  are,  espe- 
cially poor  people,  struggling  people,  those  with 
no 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


ties  and  responsibilities,  to  the  grip  of  money. 
I  went  the  other  day  to  a  man  I  know,  the 
head  of  a  bank,  where  I  keep  a  little  money — 
just  a  fraction  of  what  I  make,  gentlemen,  a 
mere  nothing  to  me  but  everything  to  this  man 
because  he  is  still  not  rich  and  is  only  fighting 
his  way  up.  'Now,'  I  said  to  him,  'you  are 
English,  are  you  not?'  'Yes,  sir,'  he  answered. 
'And  I  understand  you  mean  to  help  along  the 
loan  to  England  with  all  the  power  of  your 
bank.'  'Yes,'  he  said,  'I  mean  it  and  I'll  do  it.' 
'Then  I'll  tell  you  what,'  I  said,  'you  lend  one 
penny,  or  help  to  lend  one  penny,  to  the  people 
of  England  or  the  people  of  France,  and  I'll 
break  you,  I'll  grind  you  into  poverty — ^you  and 
your  wife  and  children  and  all  that  belongs  to 
you.'  " 

The  Philanthropist  had  spoken  with  so  great 
an  intensity  that  there  was  a  deep  stillness  over 
the  assembled  company.  The  Negro  President 
had  straightened  up  in  his  seat,  and  as  he  looked 
at  the  speaker  there  was  something  in  his  erect 
back  and  his  stern  face  and  the  set  of  his  faded 
III 


Further  Foolishness 


uniform  that  somehow  turned  him,  African 
though  he  was,  into  a  soldier. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  with  his  eye  riveted  on  the 
speaker's  face,  "what  happened  to  that  banker 
man?" 

"The  fool!"  said  The  Philanthropist,  "he 
wouldn't  hear — he  defied  me — he  said  that 
there  wasn't  money  enough  in  all  my  business 
to  buy  the  soul  of  a  single  Englishman.  I  had 
his  directors  turn  him  from  his  bank  that  day, 
and  he's  enlisted,  the  scoundrel,  and  is  gone  to 
the  war.  But  his  wife  and  family  are  left  be- 
hind: they  shall  learn  what  the  grip  of  the 
money  power  is — learn  it  in  misery  and  pov- 
erty. 

"My  good  sir,"  said  the  Negro  President 
slowly  and  impressively,  "do  you  know  why 
your  plan  of  stopping  war  wouldn't  work  in 
Haiti?" 

"No,"  said  The  Philanthropist. 

"Because  our  black  people  there  would  kill 
you.  Whichever  side  they  were  on,  whatever 
they  thought  of  the  war — they  would  take  a 
man  like  you  and  lead  you  out  into  the  town 

112 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


square,  and  stand  you  up  against  the  side  of 
an  adobe  house,  and  they'd  shoot  you.  Come 
down  to  Haiti,  if  you  doubt  my  words,  and 
try  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  The  Philanthropist,  re- 
suming his  customary  manner  of  undisturbed 
gentleness,  "I  don't  think  I  will.  I  don't  think 
somehow  that  I  could  do  business  In  Haiti." 

The  passage  at  arms  between  the  Negro 
President  and  The  Philanthropist  had  thrown 
a  certain  confusion  Into  the  hitherto  agreeable 
gathering.  Even  The  Eminent  Divine  was  seen 
to  be  slowly  shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side, 
an  extreme  mark  of  excitement  which  he  never 
permitted  himself  except  under  stress  of  pas- 
sion. The  two  humble  guests  at  the  foot  of 
the  tabl-"  were  visibly  perturbed.  "Say,  I  don't 
like  that  about  the  banker,"  squeaked  one  of 
them.  "That  ain't  right,  eh,  what?  I  don't 
like  it." 

Mr.  Bryan  was  aware  that  the  meeting  was 
in   danger   of   serious   disorder.      He   rapped 
loudly  on  the  table  for  attention.    When  he  had 
at  last  obtained  silence,  he  spoke. 
113 


Further  Foolishness 


"I  have  kept  my  own  views  to  the  last,"  he 
said,  "because  I  cannot  but  feel  that  they  pos- 
sess a  peculiar  importance.  There  is,  my  dear 
friends,  every  prospect  that  within  a  measur- 
able distance  of  time  I  shall  be  able  to  put 
them  into  practice.  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to 
announce  to  you  the  practical  certainty  that  four 
years  from  now  I  shall  be  President  of  the 
United  States." 

At  this  announcement  the  entire  company 
broke  into  spontaneous  and  heartfelt  applause. 
It  had  long  been  felt  by  all  present  that  Mr. 
Bryan  was  certain  to  be  President  of  the  United 
States  if  only  he  ran  for  the  office  often  enough, 
but  that  the  glad  moment  had  actually  arrived 
seemed  almost  too  good  for  belief. 

"Yes,  my  friends,"  continued  the  genial  host, 
"I  have  just  had  a  communicatici  from  my 
dear  friend  Wilson,  in  which  he  tells  me  that 
he,  himself,  will  never  contest  the  office  again. 
The  Presidency,  he  says,  interfered  too  much 
with  his  private  life.  In  fact,  I  am  authorised 
to  state  in  confidence  that  his  wife  forbids  him 
to  run." 

114 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"But,  my  dear  Jennings,"  interposed  Dr. 
Jordan  thoughtfully,  "what  about  Mr.  Hughes 
and  Colonel  Roosevelt?" 

"In  that  quarter  my  certainty  in  the  matter 
is  absolute.  I  have  calculated  it  out  mathemati- 
cally that  I  am  bound  to  obtain,  in  view  of  my 
known  principles,  the  entire  German  vote — 
which  carries  with  it  all  the  great  breweries 
of  the  country — the  whole  Austrian  vote,  all 
the  Hungarians  of  the  sugar  refineries,  the 
Turks — in  fact,  my  friends,  I  am  positive  that 
either  Mr.  Hughes  or  Colonel  Roosevelt,  if  he 
dares  to  run,  will  carry  nothing  but  the  Ameri- 
can vote!" 

Loud  applause  greeted  this  announcement. 

"And  now  let  me  explain  my  plan,  which  I 
believe  is  shared  by  a  great  number  of  sane, 
and  other,  pacifists  in  the  country.  All  the 
great  nations  of  the  world  will  be  invited  to 
form  a  single  international  force  consisting  of 
a  fleet  so  powerful  and  so  well  equipped  that 
no  single  nation  will  dare  to  bid  it  defiance." 

Mr.  Bryan  looked  about  him  with  a  glance 
of  something  like  triumph.  The  whole  com- 
115 


Further  Foolishness 


pany,  and  especially  the  Negro  President,  were 
now  evidently  Interested.  "Say,"  whispered  The 
General  Public  to  his  companion,  "this  sounds 
like  the  real  thing?  Eh,  what?  Isn't  he  a 
peach  of  a  thinker?" 

"What  flag  win  your  fleet  fly?"  asked  the 
Negro  President. 

"The  flags  of  all  nations,"  said  Mr.  Bryan. 

"Where  will  you  get  your  sailors?" 

"From  all  the  nations,"  said  Mr.  Bryan, 
"but  the  uniform  will  be  all  the  same,  a  plain 
white  blouse  with  blue  Insertions,  and  white 
duck  trousers  with  the  word  PEACE  stamped 
across  the  back  of  them  In  big  letters.  This 
will  help  to  impress  the  sailors  with  the  almost 
sacred  character  of  their  functions." 

"But  what  will  the  fleet's  functions  be?" 
asked  the  President. 

"Whenever  a  quarrel  arises,"  explained  Mr. 
Bryan,  "It  will  be  submitted  to  a  Board.  Who 
will  be  on  this  Board,  In  addition  to  myself,  I 
cannot  as  yet  say.  But  It's  of  no  consequence. 
Whenever  a  case  Is  submitted  to  the  Board  It 
will  think  It  over  for  three  years.  It  will  then 
ii6 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


announce  Its  decision — if  any.  After  that,  if 
any  one  nation  refuses  to  submit,  its  ports  will 
be  bombarded  by  the  Peace  Fleet." 

Rapturous  expressions  of  approval  greeted 
Mr.  Bryan's  explanation. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  Negro 
President,  turning  his  puzzled  face  to  Mr. 
Bryan.  "Would  some  of  these  ships  be  British 
ships?" 

"Oh,  certainly.  In  view  of  the  dominant  size 
of  the  British  Navy  about  one-quarter  of  ail 
the  ships  would  be  British  ships." 

"And  the  sailors  British  sailors?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Bryan,  "except  that  they 
would  be  wearing  international  breeches, — a 
most  important  point." 

"And  if  the  Board,  made  up  of  all  sorts  of 
people,  were  to  give  a  decision  against  Eng- 
land, then  these  ships — British  ships  with  Brit- 
ish sailors — would  be  sent  to  bombard  Eng- 
land itself." 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Bryan.  "Isn't  it  beau- 
tifully simple?  And  to  guarantee  its  working 
properly,"  he  continued,  "just  in  case  we  have 
117 


Further  Foolishness 


to  use  the  fleet  against  England,  we're  going 
to  ask  Admiral  Jellicoe  himself  to  take  com- 
mand." 

The  Negro  President  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"Marse  Bryan,"  he  said,  "you  notice  what 
I  say.  I  know  Marse  Jellicoe.  I  done  seen  him 
lots  of  times  when  he  was  just  a  lieutenant, 
down  in  the  harbor  of  Port  au  Prince.  If 
youse  folks  put  up  this  proposition  to  Marse 
Jellicoe,  he'll  just  tell  the  whole  lot  of  you  to 
go  plumb  to " 

But  the  close  of  the  sentence  was  lost  by  a 
sudden  interruption.  A  servant  entered  with 
a  folded  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"For  me?"  said  Mr.  Bryan,  with  a  winning 
smile. 

"For  the  President  of  Haiti,  sir,"  said  the 
man. 

The  President  took  the  telegram  and  opened 
it  clumsily  with  his  finger  and  thumb  amid  a 
general  silence.  Then  he  took  from  his  pocket 
and  adjusted  a  huge  pair  of  spectacles  with  a 
horn  rim  and  began  to  read: 

"Well,  I  'clare  to  goodness!"  he  said. 
ii8 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


"Who  is  it  from?"  said  Mr.  Bryan.  "Is  it 
anything  about  me?" 

The  Negro  President  shook  his  head.  "It's 
from  Haiti,"  he  said,  "from  my  military  secre- 
tary." 

"Read  it,  read  it,"  cried  the  company. 

"Come  back  home  right  away''  read  out  the 
Negro  President,  word  by  word.  "Everything 
is  all  right  again.  Joint  British  and  American 
Naval  Squadron  came  into  harbour  yesterday, 
landed  fifty  bluejackets  and  one  midshipman. 
Perfect  order.  Banks  open.  Bars  open.  Mule 
cars  all  running  again.  Things  fine.  Going  to 
have  big  dance  at  your  palace.  Come  right 
back." 

The  Negro  President  paused. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  great 
and  deep  relief.  "This  lets  me  out.  I  guess 
I  won't  stay  for  the  rest  of  the  discussion.  I'll 
start  for  Haiti.  I  reckon  there's  something  in 
this  Armed  Force  business  after  all." 


119 


V. — The  White  House  from 
Without  In 


Being  Extracts   from   the  Diary    of  a  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States. 

MONDAY.  Rose  early.  Swept  out 
the  White  House.  Cooked  break- 
fast. Prayers.  Sat  in  the  garden 
reading  my  book  on  Congres- . 
sional  Government.  What  a  wonderful  thing 
it  is!  Why  doesn't  Congress  live  up  to  it? 
Certainly  a  lovely  morning.  Sat  for  some  time 
thinking  how  beautiful  the  world  is.  I  defy 
any  one  to  make  a  better.  Afterwards  deter- 
mined to  utter  this  defiance  publicly  and  fear- 
lessly. Shall  put  in  list  of  fearless  defiances 
for  July  speeches.  Shall  probably  use  it  in 
Oklahoma. 

9.30  A.  M.     Bad  news.    British  ship  Torpid 
torpedoed  by  a  torpedo.    Tense  atmosphere  all 
120 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


over  Washington.  Retreated  Instantly  to  the 
pigeonhouse  and  shut  the  door.  I  must  think. 
At  all  costs.    And  no  one  shall  hurry  me. 

10  A.  M.  Have  thought.  Came  out  of 
pigeonhouse.  It  is  all  right.  I  wonder  I 
didn't  think  of  It  sooner.  The  point  Is  per- 
fectly simple.  If  Admiral  Tirpitz  torpedoed 
the  Torpid  with  a  torpedo,  where's  the  tor- 
pedo Admiral  Tirpitz  torped?  In  other  words, 
how  do  they  know  it's  a  torpedo?  The  idea 
seems  absolutely  overwhelming.  Wrote  notes 
at  once  to  England  and  to  Germany. 

11  A.  M.  Gave  out  my  idea  to  the  Ass 
Press.  Tense  feeling  at  Washington  vanished 
instantly  and  utterly.  Feehng  now  loose.  In 
fact  everything  splendid.  Money  became  easy 
at  once.  Marks  rose.  Exports  jumped.  Gold 
reserve  swelled. 

3  p.  M.  Slightly  bad  news.  Appears  there 
Is  trouble  In  the  Island  of  Piccolo  Domingo. 
Looked  It  up  on  map.  Is  one  of  the  smaller 
West  Indies.  We  don't  own  It.  I  Imagine 
Roosevelt  must  have  overlooked  It.  An  Amer- 
ican has  been  In  trouble  there:  was  refused  a 

121 


Further  Foolishness 


drink  after  closing  time  and  burnt  down  saloon. 
Is  now  in  jail.  Shall  send  at  once  our  latest 
battleship — The  Woodrow — new  design,  both 
ends  alike,  escorted  by  double-ended  coal  barges 
The  Wilson,  The  President,  The  Professor  and 
The  Thinker.  Shall  take  firm  stand  on  Ameri- 
can rights.  Piccolo  Domingo  must  either  sur- 
render the  American  alive,  or  give  him  to  us 
dead. 

TUESDAY.  A  lovely  day.  Rose  early. 
Put  flowers  in  all  the  vases.  Laid  a  wreath  of 
early  japonica  beside  my  egg-cup  on  the  break- 
fast table.  Cabinet  to  morning  prayers  and 
breakfast.     Prayed  for  better  guidance. 

9  A.  M.  Trouble,  bad  trouble.  First  of  all 
Roosevelt  has  an  interview  in  the  morning  pa- 
pers in  which  he  asks  why  I  don't  treat  Ger- 
many as  I  treat  Piccolo  Domingo.  Now,  what 
a  fool  question!  Can't  he  see  why?  Roose- 
velt never  could  reason.  Bryan  also  has  an  in- 
terview: wants  to  know  why  I  don't  treat  Pic- 
colo Domingo  as  I  treat  Germany?  Doesn't 
he  know  why? 

122 


PeacCj,  War,  and  Politics 


Result:  strained  feeling  in  Washington. 
Morning  mail  bad. 

lo  A.  M.  British  Admiralty  communication. 
To  the  pigeonhouse  at  once.  They  offer  to 
send  piece  of  torpedo,  fragment  of  ship  and 
selected  portions   of   dead  American   citizens. 

Have  come  out  of  pigeonhouse.  Have  ca- 
bled back:  How  do  they  know  it  is  a  torpedo, 
how  do  they  know  it  is  a  fragment,  how  do 
they  know  he  was  an  American,  who  said  he 
was  dead? 

My  answer  has  helped.  Feeling  in  Wash- 
ington easier  at  once.  General  buoyancy. 
Loans  and  discounts  doubled. 

As  I  expected — a  note  from  Germany. 
Chancellor  very  explicit.  Says  not  only  did 
they  not  torpedo  the  Torpid,  but  that  on  the 
day  (whenever  it  was)  that  the  steamer  was 
torpedoed  they  had  no  submarines  at  sea,  no 
torpedoes  in  their  submarines,  and  nothing 
really  explosive  in  their  torpedoes.  Offers, 
very  kindly,  to  fill  in  the  date  of  his  sworn 
statement  as  soon  as  we  furnish  accurate  date 
of  incident.  Adds  that  his  own  theory  is  that 
123 


Further  Foolishness 


the  Torpid  was  sunk  by  somebody  throwing 
rocks  at  it  from  the  shore.  Wish,  somehow, 
that  he  had  not  added  this  argument. 

More  bad  news:  Further  trouble  in  Mex- 
ico. Appears  General  Villa  is  not  dead.  He 
has  again  crossed  the  border,  shot  up  a  saloon 
and  retreated  to  the  mountains  of  Huahuapax- 
tapetl.  Have  issued  instructions  to  have  the 
place  looked  up  on  the  map  and  send  the  whole 
army  to  it,  but  without  in  any  way  violating 
the  neutrality  of  Mexico. 

Late  cables  from  England.  Two  more  ships 
torpedoed.  American  passenger  lost.  Name 
of  Roosevelt.  Christian  name  not  Theodore 
but  William.     Cabled  expression  of  regret. 

WEDNESDAY.  Rose  sad  at  heart.  Did 
not  work  in  garden.  Tried  to  weed  a  little 
grass  along  the  paths  but  simply  couldn't. 
This  is  a  cruel  job.  How  was  it  that  Roose- 
velt grew  stout  on  it?  His  nature  must  be 
different  from  mine.  What  a  miserable  nature 
he  must  have. 

Received  delegations.  From  Kansas,  on  the 
prospect  of  the  corn  crop :  they  said  the  number 
124 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


of  hogs  In  Kansas  will  double.  Congratulated 
them.  From  Idaho,  on  the  blight  on  the  root 
crop :  they  say  there  will  soon  not  be  a  hog  left 
in  Idaho.  Expressed  my  sorrow.  From  Michi- 
gan :  beet  sugar  growers  urging  a  higher  per- 
centage of  sugar  in  beets.  Took  firm  ground: 
said  I  stand  where  I  stood  and  I  stood  where 
I  stand.     They  went  away  dazzled,  delighted. 

Mail  and  Telegrams.  British  Admiralty. 
Torpid  Incident.  Send  further  samples.  Frag- 
ment of  valise,  parts  of  cow-hide  trunk  (dead 
passenger's  luggage)  which,  they  say,  could  not 
have  been  made  except  In  Nevada. 

Cabled  that  the  Incident  is  closed  and  that 
I  stand  where  I  stood  and  that  I  am  what  I  am. 
Situation  In  Washington  relieved  at  once.  Gen- 
eral feeling  that  I  shall  not  make  war. 

Second  Cable  from  England.  The  Two  New 
Cases.  Claim  both  ships  torpedoed.  Offer 
proofs.  Situation  very  grave.  Feeling  In 
Washington  very  tense.  Roosevelt  out  with  a 
signed  statement,  What  Will  the  President  Do? 
Surely  he  knows  what  I  will  do. 

Cables  from  Germany.  Chancellor  now 
125 


Further  Foolishness 


positive  as  to  Torpid.  Sworn  evidence  that 
she  was  sunk  by  some  one  throwing  a  rock. 
Sample  of  rock  to  follow.  Communication  also 
from  Germany  regarding  the  New  Cases. 
Draws  attention  to  fact  that  all  of  the  crews 
who  were  not  drowned  were  saved.  An  im- 
portant point.  Assures  this  government  that 
everything  ascertainable  will  be  ascertained, 
but  that  pending  juridical  verification  any  im- 
perial exemplification  must  be  held  categorically 
allegorical.     How  well  these  Germans  write! 

THURSDAY.  A  dull  morning.  Up  early 
and  read  Congressional  Government.  Break- 
fast. Prayers.  We  prayed  for  the  United 
States,  for  the  citizens,  for  the  Congress  (both 
houses,  especially  the  Senate),  and  for  the 
Cabinet.     Is  there  any  one  else? 

Trouble.  Accident  to  naval  flotilla  en  route 
to  Piccolo  Domingo.  The  new  battleship  The 
Woodrow  has  broken  down.  Fault  in  struc- 
ture. Tried  to  go  with  both  ends  first.  Ap- 
peared impossible.  Went  sideways  a  little  and 
is  sinking.  Wireless  from  the  barges  The  Wil- 
son, The  Thinker  and  others.  They  are  stand- 
126 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


ing  by.  They  wire  that  they  will  continue  to 
stand  by.  Why  on  earth  do  they  do  that? 
Shall  cable  to  them  to  act. 

Feeling  In  Washington  gloomy. 

FRIDAY.  Rose  early  and  tried  to  sweep 
out  the  White  House.  Had  little  heart  for  it. 
The  dust  gathers  in  the  corners.  How  did 
Roosevelt  manage  to  keep  it  so  clean?  An 
idea!  I  must  get  a  vacuum  cleaner!  But 
where  can  I  get  a  vacuum?  Took  my  head 
In  my  hands  and  thought :  problem  solved.  Can 
get  the  vacuum  all  right. 

Good  news.  Villa  dead  again.  Feeling  in 
Washington  relieved. 

Trouble.  Ship  torpedoed.  News  just  came 
from  the  French  Government.  Full  rigged 
ship,  The  Ping-Yan,  sailing  out  of  Ping  Pong, 
French  Cochin  China,  and  cleared  for  Hoo- 
Ra,  Indo-Arabia.  No  American  citizens  on 
board,  but  one  American  citizen  with  ticket  left 
behind  on  wharf  at  Ping  Pong.  Claims  dam- 
ages. Complicated  case.  Feeling  in  Washing- 
ton much  disturbed.  Sterling  exchange  fell  and 
wouldn't  get  up.  French  Admiralty  urge  treaty 
127 


Further  Foolishness 


of  1778.  German  Chancellor  admits  torpedo- 
ing ship  but  denies  that  it  was  full  rigged.  Cap- 
tain of  submarine  drew  picture  of  ship  as  it 
sank.  His  picture  unlike  any  known  ship  of 
French  navy. 

SATURDAY.  A  day  of  trouble.  Villa 
came  to  life  and  crossed  the  border.  Our  army 
looking  for  him  in  Mexico :  inquiry  by  wire — 
"Are  they  authorised  to  come  back?"  General 
Carranza  asks  leave  to  invade  Canada.  Pic- 
colo Domingo  expedition  has  failed.  The 
Woodrow  is  still  sinking.  The  President  and 
The  Thinker  cable  that  they  are  still  standing 
by  and  will  continue  to  stand  where  they  have 
stood.  British  Admiralty  sending  shipload 
of  fragments.  German  Admiralty  sending  ship- 
load of  affidavits.  Feeling  in  Washington  de- 
pressed to  the  lowest  depths.  Sterling  sink- 
ing.    Marks   falling.     Exports  dwindling. 

An  idea :  Is  this  job  worth  while  ?  I  wonder 
if  Billy  Sunday  would  take  It? 

Spent   the    evening   watering   the   crocuses. 
Whoever  is  here  a  year  from  now  is  welcome 
128 


Peace,  War,  and  Politics 


to  them.    They  tell  me  that  Hughes  hates  cro- 
cuses.   Watered  them  very  carefully. 

SUNDAY.  Good  news!  Just  heard  from 
Princeton  University.  I  am  to  come  back,  and 
everything  will  be  forgiven  and  forgotten. 


129 


MOVIES  <|  MOTORS. 

MEN  ^   WOMEN 


VI. — Madeline  of  the  Movies— 

A  Photoplay  Done  Back  Into  the  Words 

(Explanatory  Note — In  writing  this  I 
ought  to  explain  that  I  am  a  tottering  old  man 
of  forty-six.  I  was  born  too  soon  to  understand 
moving  pictures.  They  go  too  fast.  I  can't 
keep  up.  In  my  young  days  we  used  a  magic 
lantern.  It  showed  Robinson  Crusoe  in  six 
scenes.  It  took  all  evening  to  show  them. 
When  it  was  done  the  hall  was  filled  with 
black  smoke  and  the  audience  quite  unstrung 
with  excitement.  What  I  set  down  here  repre- 
sents my  thoughts  as  I  sit  in  front  of  a  moving 
picture  photoplay  and  interpret  it  as  best  I  can.) 

FLICK,  flick,  flick  ...  I  guess  It  must 
be  going  to  begin  now,  but  it's  queer 
the  people  don't  stop  talking:  how  can 
they  expect  to  hear  the  pictures  if  they 
go  on  talking? 


Further  Foolishness 


Now  it's  off.     Passed  by  the  Board  of 
— .     Ah,  this  looks  interesting — passed  by 


the  board  of — wait  till  I  adjust  my  spectacles 
and  read  what  it 

It's  gone.  Never  mind,  here's  something 
else,  let  me  see — Cast  of  Characters — Oh, 
yes — let's  see  who  they  are — Madeline 
Meadowlark,  a  young  something — Edward 
Dangerfield,  a — a  what?  Ah,  yes,  a  roo — 
at  least,  it's  spelt  r-o-u-e,  that  must  be  roo  all 
right — But  wait  till  I  see  what  that  is  that's 
written  across  the  top — Madeline  Meadow- 
lark,  OR,  Alone  in  a  Great  City.  I  see, 
that's  the  title  of  it.  I  wonder  which  of  the 
characters  is  alone.  I  guess  not  Madeline: 
she'd  hardly  be  alone  in  a  place  like  that.  I 
Imagine  it's  more  likely  Edward  Dangerous 
the  Roo.  A  roo  would  probably  be  alone  a 
great  deal,  I  should  think.  Let's  see  what  the 
other  characters  are — John  Holdfast,  a 
something;  Farmer  Meadowlark,  Mrs. 
Meadowlark,  his  something 

Pshaw,  I  missed  the  others,  but  never  mind; 
flick,  flick,  It's  beginning — What's  this?  A  bed- 
134 


Movies  S^  Motors,  Men  <|  Women 

room,  eh !  Looks  like  a  girl's  bedroom — ^pretty- 
poor  sort  of  place.  I  wish  the  picture  would 
keep  still  a  minute — in  Robinson  Crusoe  it  all 
stayed  still  and  one  could  sit  and  look  at  it, 
the  blue  sea  and  the  green  palm  trees  and  the 
black  footprints  in  the  yellow  sand — but  this 
blamed  thing  keeps  rippling  and  flickering  all 
the  time —  Ha!  there's  the  girl  herself — 
come  into  her  bedroom.  My!  I  hope  she 
doesn't  start  to  undress  in  it — that  would  be 
fearfully  uncomfortable  with  all  these  people 
here.  No,  she's  not  undressing — she's  gone 
and  opened  the  cupboard.  What's  that  she's 
doing — taking  out  a  milk  jug  and  a  glass — 
empty,  eh?  I  guess  it  must  be,  because  she 
seemed  to  hold  it  upside  down.  Now  she's 
picked  up  a  sugar  bowl — empty,  too,  eh? — and 
a  cake  tin,  and  that's  empty —  What  on  earth 
does  she  take  them  all  out  for  if  they're  empty? 
Why  can't  she  speak?  I  think — hullo — who's 
this  coming  in?  Pretty  hard  looking  sort  of 
woman — what's  she  got  in  her  hand? — some 
sort  of  paper,  I  guess — she  looks  like  a  land- 
lady, I  shouldn't  wonder  if  .  .  . 
135 


Further  Foolishness 


Flick,  flick !    Say !    Look  there  on  the  screen : 


YOU    OWE     ME    THREE    WEEKS' 
RENT. 


Oh,  I  catch  on!  That's  what  the  landlady 
says,  eh?  Say!  that's  a  mighty  smart  way  to 
indicate  it,  isn't  it?  I  was  on  to  that  in  a  min- 
ute— flick,  flick — hullo,  the  landlady's  vanished 
— what's  the  girl  doing  now — say,  she's  pray- 
ing !  Look  at  her  face !  Doesn't  she  look  re- 
ligious, eh? 

Flick,  flick! 

Oh,  look,  they've  put  her  face,  all  by  itself, 
on  the  screen.  My!  what  a  big  face  she's  got 
when  you  see  it  like  that. 

She's  in  her  room  again — she's  taking  off 
her  jacket — by  Gee!      She   is   going   to  bed! 

Here,  stop  the  machine;  it  doesn't  seem 

Flick,  flick! 

Well,  look  at  that !     She's  in  bed,  all  in  one 

flick,  and  fast  asleep !     Something  must  have 

broken  in  the  machine  and  missed  out  a  chunk. 

There!  she's  asleep  all  right — looks  as  if  she 

136 


Movies  &,  Motors,  Men  §  Women 

was  dreaming.  Now  it's  sort  of  fading.  I  won- 
der how  they  make  it  do  that?  I  guess  they 
turn  the  wick  of  the  lamp  down  low:  that  was 

the  way  in  Robinson  Crusoe Flick,  flick! 

Hullo!  where  on  earth  is  this — farmhouse, 
I  guess — must  be  away  upstate  somewhere — 
who  on  earth  are  these  people?  Old  man — 
white  whiskers — old  lady  at  a  spinning-wheel 
— see  it  go,  eh?  Just  like  real!  And  a  young 
man — that  must  be  John  Holdfast — and  a  girl 
with  her  hand  in  his.  Why!  Say!  it's  the  girl, 
the  same  girl,  Madeline — only  what's  she  do- 
ing away  off  here  at  this  farm — how  did  she 
get  clean  back  from  the  bedroom  to  this  farm? 
Flick,  flick!     What's  this. 


NO,  JOHN,  I  CANNOT  MARRY  YOU. 
I  MUST  DEVOTE  MY  LIFE 
TO  MY  MUSIC. 


Who  says  that?  What  music?  Here, 
stop 

It's  all  gone.  What's  this  new  place?  Flick, 
flick,  looks  like  a  street.  Say!  see  the  street- 
137 


Furtlier  Foolishness 


car  coming  along — well!  say!  isn't  that  great? 
A  street-car!  And  here's  Madeline.  How  on 
earth  did  she  get  back  from  the  old  farm  all 
in  a  second?  Got  her  street  things  on — that 
must  be  music  under  her  arm — I  wonder  where 
— hullo — who's  this  man  in  a  silk  hat  and  swell 
coat?  Gee!  he's  well  dressed.  See  him  roll  his 
eyes  at  Madeline !  He's  lifting  his  hat — I 
guess  he  must  be  Edward  Something,  the  Roo — 
only  a  roo  could  dress  as  well  as  he  does — 
he's  going  to  speak  to  her 


SIR,  I  DO  NOT  KNOW  YOU.     LET 
ME  PASS 


Oh,  I  see !  The  Roo  mistook  her ;  he  thought 
she  was  somebody  that  he  knew!  And  she 
wasn't!  I  catch  on!  It  gets  easy  to  under- 
stand these  pictures  once  you're  on. 

Flick,  flick Oh,  say,  stop !     I  missed  a 

piece — where  is  she?     Outside  a  street  door — 

she's  pausing  a  moment  outside — that  was  lucky 

her  pausing  like  that — it  just  gave  me  time  to 

138 


Movies  ^  3Iotors,  Men  S^  Women 


read    EMPLOYMENT    BUREAU    on    the 
door.     Gee !     I  read  it  quick. 

Flick,  flick!  Where  is  it  now? — oh,  I  see, 
she's  gone  in — she's  in  there — this  must  be  the 
Bureau,  eh?  There's  Madehne  going  up  to  a 
desk. 


NO,  WE  HAVE  TOLD  YOU  BEFORE 
WE  HAVE  NOTHING  .  .  . 


Pshaw !  I  read  too  slow — she's  on  the  street 
again.     Flick,  flick! 

No,  she  isn't — she's  back  in  her  room — cup- 
board   still    empty — no    milk — no    sugar 

Flick,  flick! 

Kneeling  down  to  pray — my!  but  she's  re- 
ligious — flick,  flick — now  she's  on  the  street — 
got  a  letter  in  her  hand — what's  the  ad- 
dress     Flick,  flick! 


139 


Further  Foolishness 


Gee  I  They've  put  It  right  on  the  screen! 
The  whole  letter! 

Flick,  flick — here's  Madeline  again  on  the 
street  with  the  letter  still  in  her  hand — she's 
gone  to  a  letter  box  with  it — why  doesn't  she 
post  it?     What's  stopping  her? 


I    CANNOT    TELL   THEM    OF    MY 

FAILURE.       IT     WOULD 

BREAK  THEIR  .  .  . 


Break  their  what?  They  slide  these  things 
along  altogether  too  quick — anyway,  she  won't 

post  it — I   see — she's  torn  it  up Flick, 

flick! 

Where  is  it  now?  Another  street — seems 
like  evening — that's  a  restaurant,  I  guess 
— say,  it  looks  a  swell  place — see  the  people 
getting  out  of  the  motor  and  going  in — and 
another  lot  right  after  them — there's  Made- 
line— she's  stopped  outside  the  window — she's 
looking  in — it's  starting  to  snow!  Hullo! 
here's  a  man  coming  along!  Why,  it's  the  Roo; 
140 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  §  Women 

he's  stopping  to  talk  to  her,   and  pointing  In 
at  the  restaurant Flick,  flick! 


LET  ME  TAKE  YOU  IN  HERE  TO 
DINNER. 


Oh,  I  see!  The  Roo  says  that!  My!  I'm 
getting  on  to  the  scheme  of  these  things — the 
Roo  is  going  to  buy  her  some  dinner!  That's 
decent  of  him.  He  must  have  heard  about  her 
being  hungry  up  in  her  room — say,  I'm  glad 
he  came  along.  Look,  there's  a  waiter  come 
out  to  the  door  to  show  them  in — what!  she 
won't  go!  Say!  I  don't  understand!  Didn't 
It  say  he  offered  to  take  her  in?     Fhck,  flick! 


I  WOULD  RATHER  DIE  THAN  EAT 
IT. 


Gee!  Why's  that?  What  are  all  the  audi- 
ence applauding  for?  I  must  have  missed 
something!     Flick,  flick! 

Oh,  blazes!  I'm  getting  lost!  Where  is 
141 


Further  Foolishness 


she  now?  Back  in  her  room — flick,  flick — 
praying — flick,  flick !  She's  out  on  the  street ! — 
flick,  flick! — in  the  employment  bureau — flick, 
flick! — out  of  it — flick — darn  the  thing!  It 
changes  too  much — where  is  it  all?    What  is  it 

all ?    Flick,  flick! 

Now  it's  back  at  the  old  farm — I  under- 
stand that  all  right,  anyway!  Same  kitchen 
— same  old  man — same  old  woman — she's 
crying — who's  this? — man  in  a  sort  of  uni- 
form— oh,  I  see,  rural  postal  delivery — oh, 
yes,  he  brings  them  their  letters — I  see 


NO,     MR.     MEADOWLARK,     I    AM 

SORRY,    I    HAVE    STILL    NO 

LETTER  FOR  YOU  .  .  . 


Flick!  It's  gone!  Flick,  flick — it's  Made- 
line's room  again — what's  she  doing? — writing 
a  letter? — no,  she's  quit  writing — she's  tearing 
it  up 


I    CANNOT    WRITE.      IT    WOULD 
BREAK  THEIR  .  .  . 


142 


Movies  (§  Motors,  3Ien  &,  Women 

Flick — missed  it  again !  Break  their  some- 
thing or  other Flick,  flick! 

Now  it's  the  farm  again — oh,  yes,  that's  the 
young  man  John  Holdfast — he's  got  a  valise 
in  his  hand — he  must  be  going  away — they're 
shaking  hands  with  him — he's  saying  some- 
thing  


I  WILL  FIND  HER  FOR  YOU  IF  I 

HAVE    TO    SEARCH    ALL 

NEW    YORK. 


He's  off — there  he  goes  through  the  gate — 
they're  waving  good-bye — flick — it's  a  railway 
depot — flick — it's  New  York — say!  That's 
the  Grand  Central  Depot !  See  the  people  buy- 
ing tickets  !  My !  isn't  it  life-like  ? — and  there's 
John — he's  got  here  all  right — I  hope  he  finds 
her  room 

The  picture's  changed — where  is  it  now? 
Oh,  yes,  I  see — Madeline  and  the  Roo — out- 
side a  street  entrance  to  some  place — he's  try- 
ing to  get  her  to  come  in — what's  that  on  the 
door?    Oh,  yes,  dance  hall Flick,  flick! 

143 


Further  Foolishness 


Well,  say,  that  must  be  the  inside  of  the 
dance  hall — they're  dancing — see,  look,  look, 
there's  one  of  the  girls  going  to  get  up  and 
dance  on  the  table. 

Flick !  Darn  it ! — they've  cut  it  off — it's  out- 
side again — it's  Madeline  and  the  Roo — she's 
saying  something  to  him — my !  doesn't  she  look 
proud ? 


I  WILL  DIE  RATHER  THAN  DANCE. 


Isn't  she  splendid!  Hear  the  audience  ap- 
plaud! Flick — it's  changed — it's  Madeline's 
room  again — that's  the  landlady — doesn't  she 
look  hard,  eh?    What's  this Flick! 


IF  YOU  CANNOT  PAY  YOU  MUST 
LEAVE  TO-NIGHT. 


FHck,  flick — it's  Madeline — she's  out  in  the 
street — it's  snowing — she's  sat  down  on  a  door- 
step— say,    see    her    face,    isn't    it    pathetic? 
144 


Movies  ^  Motors^  Men  S^  Women 

There !  they've  put  her  face  all  by  itself  on  the 
screen.    See  her  eyes  move !    Flick,  flick ! 

Who's  this?  Where  is  it?  Oh,  yes,  I  get 
it — it's  John — at  a  police  station — he's  ques- 
tioning them — how  grave  they  look,  eh?  Flick, 
flick! 


HAVE  YOU  SEEN  A  GIRL  IN  NEW 
YORK? 


I  guess  that's  what  he  asks  them,  eh?    Flick, 
flick 


NO,  WE  HAVE  NOT. 


Too  bad — flick — it's  changed  again — it's 
Madeline  on  the  doorstep — she's  fallen  asleep 
— oh,  say,  look  at  that  man  coming  near  to 
her  on  tiptoes,  and  peeking  at  her — why,  it's 
Edward,  it's  the  Roo — ^but  he  doesn't  waken 
her — what  does  it  mean?  What's  he  after? 
Flick,  flick 

Hullo — what's  this? — it's  night — what's  this 
145 


Further  Foolishness 


huge  dark  thing  all  steel,  with  great  ropes 
against  the  sky — it's  Brooklyn  Bridge — at  mid- 
night— there's  a  woman  on  it!  It's  Madeline 
— see!  see!  She's  going  to  jump — stop  her! 
Stop  her!     Flick,  flick 

Hullo !  she  didn't  jump  after  all — there  she 
is  again  on  the  doorstep — asleep — how  could 
she  jump  over  Brooklyn  Bridge  and  still  be 
asleep? — I  don't  catch  on — or,  oh,  yes,  I  do — 
she  dreamed  it — I  see  now,  that's  a  great 
scheme,  eh? — shows  her  dream 

The  picture's  changed — what's  this  place — a 
saloon,  I  guess — ^yes,  there's  the  bartender, 
mixing  drinks — men  talking  at  little  tables — 
aren't  they  a  tough-looking  lot? — see,  that  one's 
got  a  revolver — why,  it's  Edward  the  Roo — 
talking  with  two  men — he's  giving  them  money 
— what's  this? 


GIVE  US  A  HUNDRED  APIECE  AND 
WE'LL  DO  IT. 


It's  in  the  street  again — Edward  and  one 
of  the   two   toughs — they've   got   little   black 
146 


Movies  <§  Motors,  Men  ^  Women 

masks  on — they're  sneaking  up  to  Madeline 
where  she  sleeps — they've  got  a  big  motor 
drawn  up  beside  them — look,  they've  grabbed 
hold  of  Madeline — they're  lifting  her  into  the 
motor — help  !  Stop  !  Aren't  there  any  police  ? 
— yes,  yes,  there's  a  man  who  sees  it — by  Gee  I 
It's  John,  John  Holdfast — grab  them,  John — 
pshaw !  they've  jumped  into  the  motor,  they're 
off! 

Where  is  it  now? — oh,  yes — it's  the  police 
station  again — that's  John;  he's  telling  them 
about  it — he's  all  out  of  breath — look,  that 
head  man,  the  big  fellow,  he's  giving  or- 
ders  


INSPECTOR  FORDYCE,  TAKE  YOUR 

BIGGEST  CAR  AND  TEN  MEN. 

IF  YOU  OVERTAKE  THEM, 

SHOOT  AND   SHOOT 

TO    KILL. 


Hoorah!  Isn't  it  great — hurry!  don't  lose 
a  minute — see  them  all  buckling  on  revolvers 
— get  at  it,  boys,  get  at  it!  Don't  lose  a  sec- 
ond  

147 


Further  Foolishness 


Look,  look — it's  a  motor — full  speed  down 
the  street — look  at  the  houses  fly  past — it's  the 
motor  with  the  thugs — there  it  goes  round  the 
corner — it's  getting  smaller,  it's  getting  smaller, 
but  look,  here  comes  another — my!  it's  just 
flying — it's  full  of  police — there's  John  in 
front Flick ! 

Now  it's  the  first  motor — it's  going  over  a 
bridge — it's  heading  for  the  country — say,  isn't 
that  car  just  flying Flick,  flick! 

It's    the    second    motor — it's    crossing    the 

bridge    too — hurry,    boys,    make    it    go ! 

Flick,   flick! 

Out  in  the  country — a  country  road — early 
daylight — see  the  wind  in  the  trees !  Notice 
the  branches  waving?  Isn't  it  natural? — whiz  ! 
Biff  !  There  goes  the  motor — biff !  There 
goes  the  other  one — right  after  it — hoorah  ! 

The  open  road  again — the  first  motor  fly- 
ing along!  Hullo,  what's  wrong?  It's  slack- 
ened, it  stops — hoorah!  it's  broken  down — 
there's  Madeline  inside — there's  Edward  the 
Roo!     Say!  isn't  he  pale  and  desperate! 

Hoorah !  the  police !  the  police !  all  ten  of 
148 


Movies  (§  3Iotors,  Men  <§  Women 

them  in  their  big  car — see  them  jumping  out 
— see  them  pile  into  the  thugs !  Down  with 
them !  paste  their  heads  off !  Shoot  them ! 
Kill  them !  isn't  it  great — isn't  it  educative — 
that's  the  Roo — Edward — with  John  at  his 
throat !     Choke  him,  John !    Throttle  him ! 

Hullo,  it's  changed — they're  in  the  big  mo- 
tor— that's  the  Roo  with  the  handcuffs  on  him. 

That's  Madeline — she's  unbound  and  she's 
talking;  say,  isn't  she  just  real  pretty  when  she 
smiles? 


YES,     JOHN,     I     HAVE     LEARNED 

THAT    I    WAS   WRONG   TO    PUT 

MY  ART  BEFORE  YOUR  LOVE. 

I     WILL     MARRY     YOU     AS 

SOON    AS    YOU     LIKE. 


Flick,  flick! 

What  pretty  music!  Ding!  Dong!  Ding! 
Dong !  Isn't  it  soft  and  sweet ! — like  wedding 
bells.  Oh,  I  see,  the  man  in  the  orchestra's 
doing  it  with  a  little  triangle  and  a  stick — 
it's  a  little  church  up  in  the  country — see  all 
149 


Further  Foolishness 


the  people  lined  up — oh!  there's  Madeline!  in 
a  long  white  veil — isn't  she  just  sweet! — and 

John 

Flick,  flack,  flick,  flack. 


BULGARIAN      TROOPS     ON      THE 
MARCH. 


What!  Isn't  it  over?  Do  they  all  go  to 
Bulgaria?  I  don't  seem  to  understand.  Any- 
way, I  guess  it's  all  right  to  go  now.  Other 
people  are  going. 


UO 


VII.—The  Call  of  the  Carbureter 

or 

Mr.  Blinks  and  His  Friends 


{"First  get  a  motor  in  your  own  eye  and 
then  you  will  overlook  more  easily  the  motor 
in  your  brother's  eye." — Somewhere  in  the 
Bible.) 

BY  all  means  let's  have  a  reception,"  said 
Mrs.  Blinks.  "It's  the  quickest  and 
nicest  way  to  meet  our  old  friends 
again  after  all  these  years.  And  good- 
ness knows  this  house  is  big  enough  for  it" — 
she  gave  a  glance,  as  she  spoke,  round  the  big 
reception  room  of  the  Blinks'  residence — "and 
these  servants  seem  to  understand  things  so 
perfectly  it's  no  trouble  to  us  to  give  any- 
thing. Only  don't  let's  ask  a  whole  lot  of  chat- 
tering young  people  that  we  don't  know;  let's 
151 


Further  Foolishness 


have  the  older  people,  the  ones  that  can  talk 
about  something  really  worth  while." 

"That's  just  what  I  say,"  answered  Mr. 
Blinks — he  was  a  small  man  with  insignificance 
written  all  over  him — "let  me  listen  to  people 
talk;  that's  what  /  like.  I'm  not  much  on  the 
social  side  myself,  but  I  do  enjoy  hearing  good 
talk.  That's  what  I  liked  so  much  over  in 
England.  All  them — all  those  people  that  we 
used  to  meet  talked  so  well.  And  in  France 
those  ladies  that  run  saloons  on  Sunday  after- 
noons  " 

"Sallongs,"  corrected  Mrs.  Blinks.  "It's 
sounded  like  it  was  a  G."  She  picked  up  a 
pencil  and  paper, 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  as  she  began  to  write 
down  names,  "we'll  ask  Judge  Ponderus " 

"Sure!"  assented  Mr.  Blinks,  rubbing  his 
hands.     "He's  a  fine  talker,  if  he'll  come!" 

"They'll  all  come,"  said  his  wife,  "to  a  house 
as  big  as  this;  and  we'll  ask  the  Rev.  Dr.  Domb 
and  his  wife — or,  no,  he's  Archdeacon  Domb 
now,  I  hear — and  we'll  invite  Bishop  Sollem, 
so  they  can  talk  together." 
152 


Movies  ^  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

"That'll  be  good,"  said  Mr.  Blinks.  "I  re- 
member years  and  years  ago  hearing  them  two 
— those  two,  talking  about  religion,  all  about 
the  soul  and  the  body.  Man!  It  was  deep.  It 
was  clean  beyond  me.  That's  what  I  like  to 
listen  to." 

"And  Professor  Potofax  from  the  college," 
went  on  Mrs.  Blinks.  "You  remember,  the  big 
stout  one." 

"I  know,"  said  her  husband. 

" — and  his  daughter,  she's  musical,  and  Mrs. 
Buncomtalk,  she's  a  great  light  on  woman  suf- 
frage, and  Miss  Scragg  and  Mr.  Underdone — 
they  both  write  poetry,  so  they  can  talk  about 
that." 

"It'll  be  a  great  treat  to  listen  to  them  all," 
said  Mr.  Blinks. 

A  week  later,  on  the  day  of  the  Blinks'  re- 
ception, there  was  a  string  of  motors  three  deep 
along  a  line  of  a  hundred  yards  In  front  of 
the  house. 

Inside  the  reception  rooms  were  filled. 
153 


Further  Foolishness 


Mr.  Blinks,  insignificant  even  in  his  own 
house,  moved  to  and  fro  among  his  guests. 

Archdeacon  Domb  and  Dean  Sollem  were 
standing  side  by  side  with  their  heads  gravely- 
lowered  as  they  talked  over  the  cups  of  tea 
that  they  held  in  their  hands. 

Mr.  Blinks  edged  towards  them.  "This'll 
be  something  pretty  good,"  he  murmured  to 
himself  as  he  got  within  reach  of  their  con- 
versation. 

"What  do  you  do  about  your  body?"  the 
Archdeacon  was  asking  in  his  deep,  solemn 
tones. 

"Practically  nothing,"  said  the  Bishop.  "A 
little  rub  of  shellac  now  and  then,  but  practi- 
cally nothing." 

"You  wash  it,  of  course?"  asked  Dr.  Domb. 

"Only  now  and  again,  but  far  less  than  you 
would  think.  I  really  take  very  little  thought 
for  my  body." 

"Ah,"  said  Dr.  Domb,  reflectively,  "I  went 
all  over  mine  last  summer  with  linseed  oil." 

"But  didn't  you  find,"  said  the  Bishop,  "that 
it  got  Into  your  pipes  and  choked  your  feed?" 
154 


Movies  S^  Motors,  Men  8^  Women 

"It  did,"  said  Dr.  Domb,  munching  a  bit 
of  toast  as  he  spoke.  *'In  fact,  I  have  had  a 
lot  of  trouble  with  my  feed  ever  since." 

"Try  flushing  your  pipes  out  with  hot 
steam,"  said  the  Bishop. 

Mr.  Blinks  had  listened  in  something  like 
dismay.  "Motor  cars !"  he  murmured.  "Who'd 
have  thought  it?" 

But  at  this  moment  a  genial,  hearty-looking 
person  came  pushing  towards  him  with  a  cheery 
greeting. 

"Im  afraid  I'm  rather  late.  Blinks,"  he  said. 

"Delayed  in  court,  eh,  Judge?"  said  Blinks 
as  he  shook  hands. 

"No,  blew  out  a  plug!"  said  the  Judge. 
"Stalled  me  right  up." 

"Blew  out  a  plug!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Domb  and 
the  Bishop,  deeply  interested  at  once. 

"A  cracked  insulator,  I  think,"  said  the 
Judge. 

"Possibly,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  very  grave- 
ly, "the  terminal  nuts  of  your  dry  battery  were 
loose." 


Further  Foolishness 


Mr.  Blinks  moved  slowly  away.  "Dear 
me!"  he  mused,  "how  changed  they  are." 

It  was  a  relief  to  him  to  edge  his  way  quietly 
into  another  group  of  guests  where  he  felt  cer- 
tain that  the  talk  would  be  of  quite  another 
kind. 

Professor  Potofax  and  Miss  Snagg  and  a 
number  of  others  were  evidently  talking  about 
books. 

"A  beautiful  book,"  the  professor  was  say- 
ing. "One  of  the  best  things,  to  my  mind  at 
any  rate,  that  has  appeared  for  years.  There's 
a  chapter  on  the  silencing  of  exhaust  gas  which 
is  simply  marvellous." 

"Is  it  illustrated?"  questioned  one  of  the 
ladies. 

"Splendidly,"  said  the  professor.  "Among 
other  things  there  are  sectional  views  of  check 
valves  and  flexible  roller  bearings " 

"Ah,  do  tell  me  about  the  flexible  bearings," 
murmured  Miss  Snaggs. 

•  •••••• 

Mr.  Blinks  moved  on. 

Wherever  he  went  among  his  guests,  they 
156 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  8^  Women 

all  seemed  stricken  with  the  same  mania.  He 
caught  their  conversation  in  little  scraps. 

"I  ran  her  up  to  forty  with  the  greatest  ease, 
then  threw  in  my  high  speed  and  got  seventy  out 
of  her  without  any  trouble." — "No,  I  simply 
used  a  socket  wrench,  it  answers  perfectly." — 
"Yes,  a  solution  of  calcium  chloride  is  very 
good,  but  of  course  the  hydrochloric  acid  in 
it  has  a  powerful  effect  on  the  metal." 

"Dear  me !"  mused  Mr.  Blinks,  "are  they  all 
mad?" 

Meantime,  around  his  wife,  who  stood  re- 
ceiving in  state  at  one  end  of  the  room,  the 
guests  surged  to  and  fro. 

"So  charmed  to  see  you  again,"  exclaimed 
one.  "You've  been  in  Europe  a  long  time, 
haven't  you?  Oh,  mostly  in  the  south  of  Eng- 
land? Are  the  roads  good?  Last  year  my 
husband  and  I  went  all  through  Shakespeare's 
country.  It's  just  delightful.  They  sprinkle  it 
so  thoroughly.  And  Stratford-on-Avon  itself 
is  just  a  treat.  It's  all  oiled,  every  bit  of  it — 
except  the  little  road  by  Shakespeare's  house — 
but  we  didn't  go  along  that.  Then  later  we 
157 


Further  Foolishness 


went  up  to  the  Lake  District:  but  it's  not  so 
good:  they  don't  oil  it." 

She  floated  away,  to  give  place  to  another 
lady. 

"In  France  every  summer?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Oh,  how  perfectly  lovely.  Don't  you  think 
the  French  cars  simply  divine?  My  husband 
thinks  the  French  body  is  far  better  modelled 
than  ours.  He  saw  ever  so  many  of  them.  He 
thought  of  bringing  one  over  with  him,  but  it 
costs  such  a  lot  to  keep  them  in  good  or- 
der." .  .  . 

"The  theatres?"  said  another  lady.  "How 
you  must  have  enjoyed  them.  I  just  love  the 
theatres.  Last  week  my  husband  and  I  were 
at  the  Palatial — it's  moving  pictures — where 
they  have  that  film  with  the  motor  collision 
running.  It's  just  wonderful.  You  see  the 
motors  going  at  full  speed,  and  then  smash 
right  into  one  another — and  all  the  people 
killed — it's  really  fine." 

"Have   they   all    gone    insane?"    said    Mr. 
Blinks  to  his  wife  after  the  guests  had  gone. 
158 


Movies  <§  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

"Dreadful,  isn't  it?"  she  assented.  "I  never 
was  so  bored  in  my  life," 

"Why!  they  talk  of  nothing  else  but  their 
motor  cars,"  said  Blinks.  "We've  got  to  get  a 
car,  I  suppose,  living  at  this  distance  from  the 
town,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  intend  to  go  clean 
crazy  over  it  like  these  people." 

And  the  guests  as  they  went  home  talked  of 
the  Blinkses. 

"I  fear,"  said  Dr.  Domb  to  Judge  Ponderus, 
"that  Blinks  has  hardly  profited  by  his  time 
in  Europe  as  much  as  he  ought  to  have.  He 
seems  to  have  observed  nothing.  I  was  ask- 
ing him  about  the  new  Italian  touring  car  that 
they  are  using  so  much  in  Rome.  He  said  he 
had  never  noticed  it.  And  he  was  there  a 
month!" 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  the  Judge.  "Where 
were  his  eyes?" 

All  of  which  showed  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Blinks  were  in  danger  of  losing  their  friends 
for  ever. 

159 


Further  Foolishness 


But  it  so  happened  that  about  three  weeks 
■later  Blinks  came  home  to  his  residence  in  an 
obvious  state  of  excitement.  His  face  was 
flushed  and  he  had  on  a  silly  little  round  cap 
with  a  glazed  peak. 

"Why,  Clarence!"  cried  his  wife,  "whatever 
Is  the  matter?" 

"Matter!"  he  exclaimed.  "There  isn't  any- 
thing the  matter!  I  bought  a  car  this  morning, 
that's  all.  Say,  it's  a  beauty,  a  regular  peach, 
four  thousand  with  ten  off.  I  ran  it  clean 
round  the  shed  alone  first  time.  The  chauf- 
feur says  he  never  saw  anybody  get  on  to  the 
hang  of  it  so  quick.  Get  on  your  hat  and  come 
right  on  down  to  the  garage.  I've  got  a  man 
waiting  there  to  teach  you  to  run  it.  Hurry 
up!" 

Within  a  week  or  two  after  that  one  might 
see  the  Blinkses  any  morning,  in  fact  every 
morning,  out  in  their  car ! 

"Good  morning,  Judge !"  calls  Blinks  gaily  as 
he  passes.  "How's  that  carbureter  acting? — 
Good  morning.  Archdeacon,  is  that  plug  trouble 
1 60 


Movies  S^  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

of  yours  all  right  again? — Hullo !  professor,  let 
me  pick  you  up  and  ride  you  up  tto  the  col- 
lege; oh,  it's  no  trouble.  What  do  you  think 
of  the  bearings  of  this  car?  Aren't  they  just 
dandy?" 

And  so  Mr.  Blinks  has  got  all  his  friends 
back  again. 

After  all,  the  great  thing  about  being  crazy 
is  to  be  all  crazy  together. 


i6i 


VIII.—The  Two  Sexes,  In  Fives 
or  Sixes — A  Dinner  Party  Study. 


BUT,   surely!"   exclaimed   the   Hostess, 
looking     defiantly     and      searchingly 
through  the  cut  flowers  of  the  centre- 
piece, so  that  her  eye  could  intimidate 
in  turn  all  the  five  men  at  the  table,  "one  must 
admit  that  women  are  men^s  equals  in  every 
wayr 

The  Lady-with-the-Bust  tossed  her  head  a 
little  and  echoed,  "Oh,  surely!" 

The  Debutante  lifted  her  big  blue  eyes  a  lit- 
tle towards  the  ceiling,  with  the  upward  glance 
that  stands  for  innocence.  She  said  nothing, 
waiting  for  a  cue  as  to  what  to  appear  to  be. 
Meantime  the  Chief  Lady  Guest,  known  to 
be  in  suffrage  work,  was  pinching  up  her  lips 
and  getting  her  phrases  ready,  like  a  harpooner 
waiting  to  strike.  She  knew  that  the  Hostess 
meant  this  as  an  opening  for  her. 
162 


Movies  §  Motors,  Men  §  Women 

But  the  Soft  Lady  Whom  Men  Like  toyed 
with  a  bit  of  bread  on  the  tablecloth  (she  had 
a  beautiful  hand)  and  smiled  gently.  The  other 
women  would  have  called  it  a  simper.  To  the 
men  it  stood  for  profound  intelligence. 

The  five  men  that  sat  amongst  and  between 
the  ladies  received  the  challenge  of  the  Hos- 
tess's speech  and  answered  it  each  in  his  own 
way. 

From  the  Heavy  Host  at  the  head  of  the 
table  there  came  a  kind  of  deep  grunt,  nothing 
more.  He  had  heard  this  same  talk  at  each  of 
his  dinners  that  season. 

There  was  a  similar  grunt  from  the  Heavy 
Business  Friend  of  the  Host,  almost  as  broad 
and  thick  as  the  host  himself.  He  knew  too 
what  was  coming.  He  proposed  to  stand  by 
his  friend,  man  for  man.  He  could  sympathise. 
The  Lady-with-the-Bust  was  his  wife. 

But  the  Half  Man  with  the  Moon  Face, 
who  was  known  to  work  side  by  side  with 
women  on  committees  and  who  called  them 
"Comrades,"  echoed,  "Oh,  surely!"  with  deep 
emphasis. 

163 


Further  Foolishness 


The  Smooth  Gentleman,  there  for  busi- 
ness reasons,  exclaimed  with  great  alacrity, 
"Women  equal!     Oh,  rather!" 

Last  of  all  the  Interesting  Man  with  Long 
Hair,  known  to  write  for  the  magazines — all 
of  them — began  at  once,  "I  remember  once  say- 
ing to  Mrs.  Pankhurst "  but  was  over- 
whelmed in  the  general  conversation  before  he 
could  say  what  it  was  he  remembered  saying 
to  Mrs.  Pankhurst. 

In  other  words,  the  dinner  party,  at  about 
course  number  seven,  had  reached  the  inevita- 
ble moment  of  the  discussion  of  the  two  sexes. 

It  had  begun  as  dinner  parties  do. 

Everybody  had  talked,  gloomily,  to  his 
neighbour  over  the  oysters  on  one  drink  of 
white  wine;  more  or  less  brightly  to  two  peo- 
ple, over  the  fish,  on  two  drinks;  quite  bril- 
liantly to  three  people  on  three  drinks;  and 
then  the  conversation  had  become  general  and 
the  European  war  had  been  fought  through 
three  courses  with  champagne.  Everybody  had 
taken  an  extremely  broad  point  of  view.  The 
Heavy  Business  Friend  had  declared  himself 
164 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

absolutely  Impartial  and  had  at  once  got  wet 
with  rage  over  cotton.  The  Chief  Lady  Guest 
had  explained  that  she  herself  was  half  Eng- 
lish on  her  mother's  side,  and  the  Lady-wlth- 
the-Bust  had  told  how  a  lady  friend  of  hers  had 
a  cousin  who  had  travelled  In  Hungary.  She 
admitted  that  It  was  some  years  ago.  Things 
might  have  changed  since.  Then  the  Interest- 
ing Man,  having  got  the  table  where  he  wanted 
it,  had  said:  "I  remember  when  I  was  last  in 
Sofia — by  the  way  it  is  pronounced  Say-ah-fee- 
ah — talking  with  Radovltch — or  Radee-ah- 
vltch,  as  it  should  be  sounded — the  foreign  sec- 
retary, on  what  the  Sobranje — It  is  pronounced 
Soophrangee — would  be  likely  to  do" — and  by 
the  time  he  had  done  with  the  Sobranje  no 
one  dared  speak  of  the  war  any  more. 

But  the  Hostess  had  got  out  of  it  the  open- 
ing she  wanted,  and  she  said: 

"At  any  rate,  it  is  wonderful  what  women 
have  done  in  the  war " 

" — and  are  doing,"  echoed  the  Half  Man 
with  the  Moon  Face. 

And  then  it  was  that  the  Hostess  had  said 
165 


Further  Foolishness 


that  surely  every  one  must  admit  women  are 
equal  to  men  and  the  topic  of  the  sexes  was 
started.  All  the  women  had  been  waiting  for 
it,  anyway.  It  is  the  only  topic  that  women 
care  about.  Even  men  can  stand  it  provided 
that  fifty  per  cent,  or  more  of  the  women  pres- 
ent are  handsome  enough  to  justify  it. 

"I  hardly  see  how,  after  all  that  has  hap- 
pened, any  rational  person  could  deny  for  a 
moment,"  continued  the  hostess,  looking 
straight  at  her  husband  and  his  Heavy  Business 
Friend,  "that  women  are  equal  and  even  su- 
perior to  men.  Surely  our  brains  are  just  as 
good?"  and  she  gave  an  almost  bitter  laugh. 

"Don't  you  think  perhaps "  began  the 

Smooth  Gentleman. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  the  Hostess.  "You're 
going  to  say  that  we  are  inferior  in  things  like 
mathematics  or  In  logical  reasoning.  We  are 
not.  But,  after  all,  the  only  reason  why  we 
are  is  because  of  training.  Think  of  the  thou- 
sands of  years  that  men  have  been  trained. 
Answer  me  that?" 

i66 


Movies  ^  Motors,  Men  ^  Wo^nen 


"Well,  might  It  not  be" — began  the  Smooth 
Gentleman. 

"I  don't  think  so  for  a  moment,"  said  the 
Hostess.  "I  think  if  we'd  only  been  trained  as 
men  have  for  the  last  two  or  three  thousand 
years  our  brains  would  be  just  as  well  trained 
for  the  things  they  were  trained  for  as  they 
would  have  been  now  for  the  things  we  have 
been  trained  for  and  in  that  case  wouldn't  have. 
Don't  you  agree  with  me,"  she  said,  turning  to 
the  Chief  Lady  Guest,  whom  she  suddenly  re- 
membered, "that,  after  all,  we  think  more 
clearly?" 

Here  the  Interesting  Man,  who  had  been 
silent  longer  than  an  Interesting  Man  can,  with- 
out apoplexy,  began: 

"I  remember  once  saying  in  London  to  Sir 
Charles  Doosey " 

But  the  Chief  Lady  Guest  refused  to  be 
checked. 

"We've  been  gathering  some  rather  interest- 
ing statistics,"  she  said,  speaking  very  firmly, 
syllable  by  syllable,  "on  that  point  at  our  Set- 
tlement.   We  have  measured  the  heads  of  five 
167 


Further  Foolishness 


hundred  factory  girls,  making  a  chart  of  them, 
you  know,  and  the  feet  of  five  hundred  domestic 
servants " 

"And  don't  you  find — "  began  the  Smooth 
Gentleman. 

"No,"  said  the  Chief  Lady  Guest,  firmly, 
"we  do  not.  But  I  was  going  to  say  that  when 
we  take  our  measurements  and  reduce  them 
to  a  scale  of  a  hundred — I  think  you  under- 
stand me " 

"Ah,  but  come,  now,"  interrupted  the  In- 
teresting Man,  "there's  nothing  really  more  de- 
ceitful than  anthropometric  measures.  I  re- 
member once  saying  (in  London)  to  Sir  Robert 
Bittell — the  Sir  Robert  Bittell,  you  know " 

Here  everybody  murmured,  "Oh,  yes,"  ex- 
cept the  Heavy  Host  and  his  Heavy  Friend, 
who  with  all  their  sins  were  honest  men. 

"I  said:  Sir  Robert,  I  want  your  frank  opin- 
ion, your  very  frank  opinion " 

But  here  there  was  a  slight  interruption.  The 

Soft  Lady  accidentally  dropped  a  bangle  from 

her  wrist  on  to  the  floor.     Now  all  through 

the  dinner  she  had  hardly  said  anything,  but 

i68 


Movies  (|  Motors,  Men  S^  Women 

she  had  listened  for  twenty  minutes  (from  the 
grapefruit  to  the  fish)  while  the  Interesting 
Man  had  told  her  about  his  life  in  Honduras 
(it  is  pronounced  Hondooras),  and  for  an- 
other twenty  while  the  Smooth  Gentleman,  who 
was  a  barrister,  had  discussed  himself  as  a 
pleader.  And  when  each  of  the  men  had  begun 
to  speak  in  the  general  conversation,  she  had 
looked  deep  into  their  faces  as  if  hanging  on  to 
their  words.  So  when  she  dropped  her  bangle 
two  of  the  men  leaped  from  their  chairs  to  get 
it,  and  the  other  three  made  a  sort  of  struggle 
as  they  sat.  By  the  time  it  was  recovered  and 
replaced  upon  her  arm  (a  very  beautiful  arm), 
the  Interesting  Man  was  sidetracked  and  the 
Chief  Lady  Guest,  who  had  gone  on  talking 
during  the  bangle  hunt,  was  heard  saying, 

"Entirely  so.  That  seems  to  me  the  great- 
est difficulty  before  us.  So  few  men  are  will- 
ing to  deal  with  the  question  with  perfect  sin- 
cerity." 

She  laid  emphasis  on  the  word  and  the  Half 
Man  with  the  Moon  Face  took  his  cue  from  it 
and  threw  a  pose  of  almost  painful  sincerity. 
169 


Further  Foolishness 


"Why  is  It?"  continued  the  Chief  Lady 
Guest,  "that  men  always  insist  on  dealing  with 
us  just  as  if  we  were  playthings,  just  so  many 
dressed-up  dolls?" 

Here  the  debutante  Immediately  did  a  doll. 

"If  a  woman  is  attractive  and  beautiful," 
the  lady  went  on,  "so  much  the  better."  (She 
had  no  intention  of  letting  go  of  the  doll  busi- 
ness entirely.)  "But  surely  you  men  ought  to 
value  us  as  something  more  than  mere  dolls?" 

She  might  have  pursued  the  topic,  but  at 
this  moment  the  Smooth  Gentleman,  who  made 
a  rule  of  standing  In  all  round,  and  had  broken 
into  a  side  conversation  with  the  silent  host, 
was  overheard  to  say  something  about  women's 
sense  of  humour. 

The  table  was  in  a  turmoil  in  a  moment, 
three  of  the  ladies  speaking  at  once.  To  deny 
a  woman's  sense  of  humour  is  the  last  form 
of  social  Insult. 

"I    entirely    disagree   with   you,"    said   the 

Chief  Lady  Guest,  speaking  very  severely.     "I 

know  It  from  my  own  case,  from  my  own  sense 

of  humour  and  from  observation.    Last  week, 

170 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  ^  Women 


for  example,  we  measured  no  less  than  sev- 
enty-five factory  girls " 

"Well,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  Lady-with-the- 
Bust,  "I  don't  know  what  men  mean  by  our 
not  having  a  sense  of  humour.  I'm  sure  I  have. 
I  know  I  went  last  week  to  a  vaudeville,  and 
I  just  laughed  all  through.  Of  course  I  can't 
read  Mark  Twain,  or  anything  like  that,  but 
then  I  don't  call  that  funny,  do  you?" — she 
concluded,  turning  to  the  Hostess. 

But  the  Hostess,  feeling  somehow  that  the 
ground  was  dangerous,  had  already  risen  and 
in  a  moment  more  the  ladies  had  floated  out 
of  the  room  and  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  they  spread  themselves  about  in  easy 
chairs  in  billows  of  pretty-coloured  silk. 

"How  charming  it  is !"  the  Chief  Lady  Guest 
began,  "to  find  men  coming  so  entirely  to  our 
point  of  view.  Do  you  know  it  was  so  de- 
lightful to-night;  I  hardly  heard  a  word  of 
dissent  or  contradiction." 

Thus  they  talked;  except  the  Soft  Lady,  who 
had   slipped   into   a   seat   by   herself   with   an 
album   over   her   knees,    and   with    an   empty 
171 


Further  Foolishness 


chair  on  either  side  of  her.     There  she  waited. 

Meantime,  down  below,  the  men  had  shifted 
into  chairs  to  one  end  of  the  table  and  the 
Heavy  Host  was  shoving  cigars  at  them,  thick 
as  ropes,  and  passing  the  port  wine,  with  his 
big  fist  round  the  neck  of  the  decanter.  But 
for  his  success  in  life  he  could  have  had  a 
place  as  a  bartender  anywhere. 

None  of  them  spoke  till  the  cigars  were  well 
alight. 

Then  the  Host  said,  very  deliberately,  tak- 
ing each  word  at  his  leisure,  with  smoke  in 
between : 

"Of  course — this — suffrage  business " 

"Tommyrot!"  exclaimed  the  Smooth  Gen- 
tleman, with  great  alacrity,  his  mask  entirely 
laid  aside. 

"Damn  foolishness,"  gurgled  the  Heavy 
Business  Friend,  sipping  his  port. 

"Of  course  you  can't  really  discuss  it  with 
women,"  murmured  the  Host. 

"Oh,   no,"    assented   all  the   others.      Even 
the   Half   Man  sipped   his  wine   and  turned 
traitor,  there  being  no  one  to  see. 
172 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

"You  see,"  said  the  Host,  "if  my  wife  likes 
to  go  to  meetings  and  be  on  committees,  why, 
I  don't  stop  her." 

"Neither  do  I  mine,"  said  the  Heavy 
Friend.  "It  amuses  her,  so  I  let  her  do  it." 
His  wife,  the  Lady-with-the-Bust,  was  safely 
out  of  hearing. 

"I  remember  once,"  began  the  Interesting 
Man,  "saying  to" — he  paused  a  moment,  for 
the  others  were  looking  at  him — "saying  to  an- 
other man  that  if  women  did  get  the  vote  they'd 
never  use  it,  anyway.  All  they  like  is  being 
talked  about  for  not  getting  it." 

After  which,  having  exhausted  the  Woman 
Question,  the  five  men  turned  to  such  bigger 
subjects  as  the  fall  in  sterling  exchange  and 
the  President's  seventeenth  note  to  Germany. 

Then  presently  they  went  upstairs.  And 
when  they  reached  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  a  keen  observer,  or,  indeed,  any  kind  of 
observer,  might  have  seen  that  all  five  of  them 
made  an  obvious  advance  towards  the  two 
empty  seats  beside  the  Soft  Lady. 


173 


IX. — The  Grass  Bachelor's  Guide. 

With  Sincere  Apologies  to  the  Ladies'  Periodicals, 

THERE  are  periods  in  the  life  of  every 
married  man  when  he  is  turned  for 
the  time  being  into  a  grass  bachelor. 
This  happens,  for  instance,  in  the 
summer  time  when  his  wife  is  summering  by 
the  sea,  and  he  himself  is  simmering  in  the 
city.  It  happens  also  in  the  autumn  when  his 
wife  is  in  Virginia  playing  golf  in  order  to 
restore  her  shattered  nerves  after  the  fatigues 
of  the  seaside.  It  occurs  again  in  November 
when  his  wife  is  in  the  Adirondacks  to  get  the 
benefit  of  the  altitude,  and  later  on  through  the 
winter  when  she  is  down  in  Florida  to  get  the 
benefit  of  the  latitude.  The  breaking  up  of 
the  winter  being,  notoriously,  a  trying  time  on 
the  system,  any  reasonable  man  Is  apt  to  con- 
sent to  his  wife's  going  to  California.  In  the 
later  spring,  the  season  of  the  bursting  flowers 
174 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

and  the  young  buds,  every  woman  likes  to  be 
with  her  mother  in  the  country.  It  is  not  fair 
to  stop  her. 

It  thus  happens  that  at  various  times  of  the 
year  a  great  number  of  men,  unable  to  leave 
their  business,  are  left  to  their  own  resources 
as  housekeepers  in  their  deserted  houses  and 
apartments.  It  is  for  their  benefit  that  I  have 
put  together  these  hints  on  housekeeping  for 
men.  It  may  be  that  in  composing  them  I  owe 
something  to  the  current  numbers  of  the  lead- 
ing women's  magazines.  If  so,  I  need  not 
apologise.  I  am  sure  that  in  these  days  We 
Men  all  feel  that  We  Men  and  We  Women  are 
so  much  alike,  or  at  least  those  of  us  who  call 
ourselves  so,  that  we  need  feel  no  jealousy 
when  We  Men  and  We  Women  are  striving 
each,  or  both,  in  the  same  direction  if  in  op- 
posite ways.  I  hope  that  I  make  myself  clear. 
I  am  sure  I  do. 

So  I  feel  that  if  We  Men,  who  are  left  alone 
in  our  houses  and  apartments  in  the  summer- 
time, would  only  set  ourselves  to  it,  we  could 
make  life  not  only  a  little  brighter  for  our- 
175 


Further  Foolishness 


selves  but  also  a  little  less  bright  for  those 
about  us. 

Nothing  contributes  to  this  end  so  much  as 
good  housekeeping.  The  first  thing  for  the 
housekeeper  to  realise  is  that  it  is  impossible 
for  him  to  attend  to  his  housekeeping  in  the  stiff 
and  unbecoming  garments  of  his  business 
hours.  When  he  begins  his  day  he  must  there- 
fore carefully  consider — 

WHAT  TO  WEAR  BEFORE  DRESSING 

The  simplest  and  best  thing  will  be  found 
to  be  a  plain  sacque  or  kimono,  cut  very  full 
so  as  to  allow  of  the  freest  movement,  and 
buttoned  either  down  the  front  or  back  or  both. 
If  the  sleeve  is  cut  short  at  the  elbow  and  ruf- 
fled above  the  bare  arm,  the  effect  is  both  serv- 
iceable and  becoming.  It  will  be  better,  espe- 
cially for  such  work  as  lighting  the  gas  range 
and  boiling  water,  to  girdle  the  kimono  with  a 
simple  yet  effective  rope  of  tasselled  silk,  which 
may  be  drawn  in  or  let  out  according  to  the 
amount  of  water  one  wishes  to  boil.  A  simple 
176 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  8^  Women 

kimono  of  this  sort  can  be  bought  almost  any- 
where for  $2.50,  or  can  be  supplied  by  Messrs. 
Einstein  &  Fickelbrot  (see  advertising  pages) 
for  twenty-five  dollars. 

Having  a  kimono  such  as  this,  our  house- 
keeper can  either  button  himself  into  it  with  a 
button-hook  (very  good  ones  are  supplied  by 
Messrs.  Einstein  &  Fickelbrot  [see  ad]  at  a 
very  reasonable  price  or  even  higher) ,  or,  bet- 
ter still,  he  can  summon  the  janitor  of  the 
apartment,  who  can  button  him  up  quite  se- 
curely in  a  few  minutes'  time — a  quarter  of  an 
hour  at  the  most.  We  Men  cannot  impress 
upon  ourselves  too  strongly  that,  for  efficient 
housekeeping,  time  is  everything,  and  that  much 
depends  on  quiet,  effective  movement  from 
place  to  place,  or  from  any  one  place  to  any 
number  of  other  places.  We  are  now  ready 
to  consider  the  all  important  question — 

WHAT  TO  SELECT  FOR  BREAKFAST 

Our  housekeeper  will  naturally  desire  some- 
thing that  is  simple  and  easily  cooked,  yet  at 
177 


Further  Foolishness 


the  same  time  sustaining  and  invigorating  and 
containing  a  maximum  of  food  value  with  a 
minimum  of  cost.  If  he  is  wise  he  will  realise 
that  the  food  ought  to  contain  a  proper  quan- 
tity of  both  proteids  and  amygdaloids,  and 
while  avoiding  a  nitrogenous  breakfast,  should 
see  to  it  that  he  obtains  sufficient  of  what  is 
albuminous  and  exogamous  to  prevent  his 
breakfast  from  becoming  monotonous.  Care- 
ful thought  must  therefore  be  given  to  the 
breakfast  menu. 

For  the  purpose  of  thinking,  a  simple  but 
very  effective  costume  may  be  devised  by  throw- 
ing over  the  kimono  itself  a  thin  lace  shawl, 
with  a  fichu  carried  high  above  the  waistline 
and  terminating  in  a  plain  insertion.  A  bit  of 
old  lace  thrown  over  the  housekeeper's  head 
is  at  once  serviceable  and  becoming  and  will 
help  to  keep  the  dust  out  of  his  brain  while 
thinking  what  to  eat  for  breakfast. 

Very  naturally  our  housekeeper's  first  choice 

will  be  some  kind  of  cereal.    The  simplest  and 

most  economical  breakfast  of  this  kind  can  be 

secured  by  selecting  some  cereal  or  grain  food 

178 


Movies  (|  Motors,  Men  ^  Women 

— such  as  oats,  flax,  split  peas  that  have  been 
carefully  strained  in  the  colander,  or  beans  that 
have  been  fired  off  in  a  gun.  Any  of  these 
cereals  may  be  bought  for  ten  cents  a  pound  at 
a  grocer's — or  obtained  from  Messrs.  Einstein 
&  Fickelbrot  for  a  dollar  a  pound,  or  more. 
Supposing  then  that  we  have  decided  upon  a 
pound  of  split  peas  as  our  breakfast,  the  next 
task  that  devolves  upon  our  housekeeper  is  to — 

GO   OUT   AND   BUY   IT 

Here  our  advice  is  simple  but  positive. 
Shopping  should  never  be  done  over  the  tele- 
phone or  by  telegraph.  The  good  housekeeper 
instead  of  telegraphing  for  his  food  will  in- 
sist on  seeing  his  food  himself,  and  will  eat 
nothing  that  he  does  not  first  see  before  eat- 
ing. This  is  a  cardinal  rule.  For  the  moment, 
then,  the  range  must  be  turned  low  while  our 
housekeeper  sallies  forth  to  devote  himself  to 
his  breakfast  shopping.  The  best  costume  for 
shopping  is  a  simple  but  effective  suit,  cut  in 
plain  lines,  either  square  or  crosswise,  and  but- 
179 


Further  Foolishness 


toned  wherever  there  are  button-holes.  A  sim- 
ple hat  of  some  dark  material  may  be  worn 
together  with  plain  boots  drawn  up  well  over 
the  socks  and  either  laced  or  left  unlaced.  No 
harm  is  done  if  a  touch  of  colour  is  added  by 
carrying  a  geranium  in  the  hand.  We  are  now 
ready   for  the   street. 

TEST  OF  EFFECTIVE   SHOPPING 

Here  we  may  say  at  once  that  the  crucial 
test  is  that  we  must  know  what  we  want,  why 
we  want  it,  where  we  want  it,  and  what  it  is. 
Time,  as  We  Men  are  only  too  apt  to  forget, 
is  everything,  and  since  our  aim  is  now  a  pound 
of  split  peas  we  must,  as  we  sally  forth,  think 
of  a  pound  of  split  peas  and  only  a  pound.  A 
cheery  salutation  may  be  exchanged  with  other 
morning  shoppers  as  we  pass  along,  but  only 
exchanged.  Split  peas  being  for  the  moment 
our  prime  business,  we  must,  as  rapidly  and  un- 
obtrusively as  possible,  visit  those  shops  and 
only  those  shops  where  split  peas  are  to  be  had. 

Having  found  the  split  peas,  our  housekeep- 
i8o 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  4  Women 

er's  next  task  Is  to  pay  for  them.  This  he  does 
with  money  that  may  be  either  carried  in  the 
hand,  or,  better,  tucked  into  a  simple  etui,  or 
dodu,  that  can  be  carried  at  the  wrist  or  tied 
to  the  ankle.  The  order  duly  given,  our  house- 
keeper gives  his  address  for  the  delivery  of  the 
peas,  and  then,  as  quietly  and  harmlessly  as 
possible,  returns  to  his  apartment.  His  next 
office,  and  a  most  important  one  it  is,  is  now 
ready  to  be  performed.  This  new  but  neces- 
sary duty  is — 

WAITING  FOR  THE  DELIVERY  VAN 

A  good  costume  for  waiting  for  a  delivery 
van  in,  is  a  simple  brown  suit,  slashed  with 
yellow  and  purple,  and  sliced  or  gored  from 
the  hip  to  the  feet.  As  time  is  everything,  the 
housekeeper,  after  having  put  on  his  slashed 
costume  for  waiting  for  the  delivery  van,  may 
set  himself  to  the  performance  of  a  number  of 
light  household  tasks,  at  the  same  time  looking 
occasionally  from  the  window  so  as  to  detect 
the  arrival  of  the  van  as  soon  as  possible  after 
i8i 


Further  Foolishness 


it  has  arrived.  Among  other  things,  he  may 
now  feed  his  canary  by  opening  its  mouth  with 
a  button  hook  and  dropping  in  coffee  beans  till 
the  little  songster  shows  by  its  gratified  air 
that  it  is  full.  A  little  time  may  be  well  spent 
among  the  flowers  and  bulbs  of  the  apartment, 
clipping  here  a  leaf  and  here  a  stem,  and  re- 
moving the  young  buds  and  bugs.  For  work 
among  the  flowers,  a  light  pair  of  rather  long 
scissors,  say  a  foot  long,  can  be  carried  at 
the  girdle,  or  attached  to  the  etui  and  passed 
over  the  shoulder  with  a  looped  cord  so  as  to 
fall  in  an  easy  and  graceful  fold  across  the 
back.  The  moment  is  now  approaching  when 
we  may  expect — 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  THE  VAN 

The  housekeeper  will  presently  discover  the 
van,  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  apartment,  and 
its  driver  curled  up  on  the  seat.  Now  is  the 
moment  of  activity.  Hastily  throwing  on  a 
peignoir,  the  housekeeper  descends  and,  receiv- 
ing his  parcel,  re-ascends  to  his  apartment.  The 
182 


Movies  c^  Motors,  Men  §  Women 

whole  descent  and  re-ascent  is  made  quickly, 
quietly,   and,   if  possible,   only  once. 

PUTTING  THE   PEAS  TO  SOAK 

Remember  that  unsoaked  peas  are  hard, 
forcible,  and  surcharged  with  a  nitrogenous 
amygdaloid  that  is  in  reality  what  chemical  sci- 
ence calls  putrate  of  lead.  On  the  other  hand, 
peas  that  are  soaked  become  large,  voluble,  tex- 
tile and,  while  extremely  palatable,  are  none 
the  less  rich  in  glycerine,  starch,  and  other  lac- 
teroids  and  bactifera.  To  contain  the  required 
elements  of  nutrition  split  peas  must  be  soaked 
for  two  hours  in  fresh  water  and  afterwards 
boiled  for  an  hour  and  a  quarter  (eighty-five 
minutes). 

It  is  now  but  the  work  of  a  moment  to  lift 
the  saucepan  of  peas  from  the  fire,  strain  them 
through  a  colander,  pass  them  thence  into  a 
net  or  bag,  rinse  them  in  cold  water  and  then 
spread  the  whole  appetising  mass  on  a  platter 
and  carry  it  on  a  fire  shovel  to  the  dining-room. 
183 


Further  Foolishness 


As  It  is  now  about  six  o'clock  In  the  evening, 
our  housekeeper  can  either — 

TELEPHONE  TO  HIS  CLUB  AND 
ORDER  A  THIN  SOUP  WITH  A 

BITE  OF  FISH,  TWO  LAMB 

CHOPS  WITH  ASPARAGUS,  AND 

SEND  WORD  ALSO  FOR  A 

PINT  OF  MOSELLE  TO  BE  LAID  ON 

ICE 

OR  HE  CAN  SIT  DOWN  AND  EAT 
THOSE  D N  PEAS. 

We  know  which  he  will  do. 


184 


X. — Every  Man  and  His  Friends. 
Mr.  Crunch's  Portrait  Gallery. 

{As  edited  from  his  private  thoughts) 


HIS  VIEWS  ON  HIS  EMPLOYER 

A  MEAN  man.  I  say  it,  of  course,  with- 
out any  prejudice,  and  without  the 
slightest  malice.  But  the  man  is 
mean.  Small,  I  think,  is  the  word. 
I  am  not  thinking,  of  course,  of  my  own  salary. 
It  is  not  a  matter  that  I  would  care  to  refer  to ; 
though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  one  would  think 
that  after  fifteen  years  of  work  an  application 
for  an  increase  of  five  hundred  dollars  is  the 
kind  of  thing  that  any  man  ought  to  be  glad 
to  meet  half  way.  Not  that  I  bear  the  man 
any  malice  for  it.  None.  If  he  died  to-mor- 
row, no  one  would  regret  his  death  as  gen- 
i8s 


Further  Foolishness 


uinely  as  I  would:  if  he  fell  into  the  river  and 
got  drowned,  or  if  he  fell  into  a  sewer  and 
suffocated,  or  if  he  got  burned  to  death  in  a 
gas  explosion  (there  are  a  lot  of  things  that 
might  happen  to  him),  I  should  feel  genuinely 
sorry  to  see  him  cut  off. 

But  what  strikes  me  more  than  the  man's 
smallness  is  his  incompetence.  The  man  is  ab- 
solutely no  good.  It's  not  a  thing  that  I  would 
say  outside :  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  deny  it  every 
time  I  hear  it,  though  every  man  in  town  knows 
it.  How  that  man  ever  got  the  position  he  has 
is  more  than  I  can  tell.  And  as  for  holding 
it,  he  couldn't  hold  it  half  a  day  if  it  weren't 
that  the  rest  of  us  in  the  office  do  practically 
everything  for  him. 

Why,  I've  seen  him  send  out  letters  (I 
wouldn't  say  this  to  any  one  outside,  of  course, 
and  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  it  repeated) — let- 
ters with,  actually,  mistakes  in  English.  Think 
of  it,  in  English!     Ask  his  stenographer. 

I  often  wonder  why  I  go  on  working  for 
him.  There  are  dozens  of  other  companies 
that  would  give  anything  to  get  me.  Only  the 
i86 


Movies  <%  Motors,  Men  8^  Women 

other  day — It's  not  ten  years  ago — I  had  an 
offer,  or  practically  an  offer,  to  go  to  Japan 
selling  Bibles.  I  often  wish  now  I  had  taken 
it.  I  believe  I'd  like  the  Japanese.  They're 
gentlemen,  the  Japanese.  They  wouldn't  turn 
a  man  down  after  slaving  away  for  fifteen 
years. 

I  often  think  I'll  quit  him.  I  say  to  my  wife 
that  that  man  had  better  not  provoke  me  too 
far;  or  some  day  I'll  just  step  into  his  office 
and  tell  him  exactly  what  I  think  of  him.  I'd 
like  to.  I  often  say  it  over  to  myself  in  the 
street  car  coming  home. 

He'd  better  be  careful,  that's  all. 

II 

THE  MINISTER  WHOSE  CHURCH  HE 
ATTENDS 

A  dull  man.  Dull  is  the  only  word  I  can 
think  of  that  exactly  describes  him — dull  and 
prosy.  I  don't  say  that  he  is  not  a  good  man. 
He  may  be.  I  don't  say  that  he  is  not.  I  have 
never  seen  any  sign  of  it,  if  he  is.  But  I  make 
187 


Further  Foolishness 


it  a  rule  never  to  say  anything  to  take  away 
a  man's  character. 

And  his  sermons!  Really  that  sermon  he 
gave  last  Sunday  on  Esau  seemed  to  me  the 
absolute  limit.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
it.  I  mean  to  say — drivel.  I  said  to  my  wife 
and  some  friends,  as  we  walked  away  from  the 
church,  that  a  sermon  like  that  seemed  to  me 
to  come  from  the  dregs  of  the  human  intellect. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  believe  in  criticising  a  ser- 
mon. I  always  feel  it  a  sacred  obligation  never 
to  offer  a  word  of  criticism.  When  I  say  that 
the  sermon  was  punk,  I  don't  say  it  as  criticism. 
I  merely  state  it  as  a  fact.  And  to  think  that 
we  pay  that  man  eighteen  hundred  dollars  a 
year!  And  he's  in  debt  all  the  time  at  that. 
What  does  he  do  with  it?  He  can't  spend  it. 
It's  not  as  if  he  had  a  large  family  (they've 
only  four  children).  It's  just  a  case  of  sheer 
extravagance.  He  runs  about  all  the  time. 
Last  year  it  was  a  trip  to  a  Synod  Meeting  at 
New  York — away  four  whole  days:  and  two 
years  before  that,  dashing  off  to  a  Scripture 
i88 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  (§  Women 


Conference  at  Boston,  and  away  nearly  a  whole 
week,  and  his  wife  with  him! 

What  I  say  is  that  if  a  man's  going  to  spend 
his  time  gadding  about  the  country  like  that — 
here  to-day  and  there  to-morrow — how  on 
earth  can  he  attend  to  his  parochial  duties? 

I'm  a  religious  man.  At  least  I  trust  I  am. 
I  believe — and  more  and  more  as  I  get  older 
— in  eternal  punishment.  I  see  the  need  of  it 
when  I  look  about  me.  As  I  say,  I  trust  I  am 
a  religious  man,  but  when  it  comes  to  sub- 
scribing fifty  dollars,  as  they  want  us  to,  to 
get  that  man  out  of  debt,  I  say  "No." 

True  religion,  as  I  see  it,  is  not  connected 
with  money. 

Ill 

HIS  PARTNER  AT  BRIDGE 

The  man  is  a  complete  ass.  How  a  man 
like  that  has  the  nerve  to  sit  down  at  a  bridge 
table,  I  don't  know.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  the 
man  had  any  idea — even  the  faintest  idea — 
of  how  to  play.  But  he  hasn't  any.  Three 
189 


Further  Foolishness 


times  I  signalled  to  him  to  throw  the  lead  into 
my  hand  and  he  wouldn't :  I  knew  that  our  only 
ghost  of  a  chance  was  to  let  me  do  all  the 
playing.  But  the  ass  couldn't  see  it.  He  even 
had  the  supreme  nerve  to  ask  me  what  I  meant 
by  leading  diamonds  when  he  had  signalled 
that  he  had  none.  I  couldn't  help  asking  him, 
as  politely  as  I  could,  why  he  had  disregarded 
my  signal  for  spades.  He  had  the  gall  to  ask 
in  reply  why  I  had  overlooked  his  signal  for 
clubs  in  the  second  hand  round;  the  very  time, 
mind  you,  when  I  had  led  a  three  spot  as  a 
sign  to  him  to  let  me  play  the  whole  game. 
I  couldn't  help  saying  to  him,  at  the  end  of  the 
evening,  in  a  tone  of  such  ev^ident  satire  that 
any  one  but  an  ass  would  have  recognised 
it,  that  I  had  seldom  had  as  keen  an  evening 
at  cards. 

But  he  didn't  see  it.  The  irony  of  it  was 
lost  on  him.  The  jackass  merely  said — quite 
amiably  and  unconsciously — that  he  thought  I'd 
play  a  good  game  presently.  Me!  Play  a 
good  game  presently!! 

I  gave  him  a  look,  just  one  look  as  I  went 
190 


Movies  (|  3Iotors,  Men  S^  Women 

out!     But  I  don't  think  he  saw  it.     He  was 
talking  to  some  one  else. 

IV 

HIS  HOSTESS  AT  DINNER 

On  what  principle  that  woman  makes  up 
her  dinner  parties  is  more  than  human  brain 
can  devise.  Mind  you,  I  like  going  out  to 
dinner.  To  my  mind  it's  the  very  best  form  of 
social  entertainment.  But  I  like  to  find  my- 
self among  people  that  can  talk,  not  among 
a  pack  of  numbskulls.  What  I  like  is  good 
general  conversation,  about  things  worth  talk- 
ing about.  But  among  a  crowd  of  idiots  like 
that  what  can  you  expect?  You'd  think  that 
even  society  people  would  be  interested,  or  pre- 
tend to  be,  in  real  things.  But  not  a  bit.  I 
had  hardly  started  to  talk  about  the  rate  of  ex- 
change on  the  German  mark  in  relation  to  the 
fall  of  sterling  bills — a  thing  that  you  would 
think  a  whole  tableful  of  people  would  be  glad 
to  listen  to — when  first  thing  I  knew  the  whole 
lot  of  them  had  ceased  paying  any  attention  and 
191 


Further  Foolishness 


were  all  listening  to  an  insufferable  ass  of 
an  Englishman — I  forget  his  name.  You'd 
hardly  suppose  that  just  because  a  man  has 
been  in  Flanders  and  has  his  arm  in  a  sling 
and  has  to  have  his  food  cut  up  by  the  butler, 
that's  any  reason  for  having  a  whole  tableful 
of  people  listening  to  him.  And  especially  the 
women :  they  have  a  way  of  listening  to  a  fool 
like  that  with  their  elbows  on  the  table  that 
Is  positively  sickening, 

I  felt  that  the  whole  thing  was  out  of  taste 
and  tried  In  vain,  in  one  of  the  pauses,  to  give  a 
lead  to  my  hostess  by  referring  to  the  prospect 
of  a  shipping  subsidy  bill  going  through  to 
offset  the  register  of  alien  ships.  But  she  was 
too  utterly  dense  to  take  it  up.  She  never  even 
turned  her  head.  All  through  dinner  that  ass 
talked — he  and  that  silly  young  actor  they're 
always  asking  there  that  is  perpetually  doing 
imitations  of  the  vaudeville  people.  That  kind 
of  thing  may  be  all  right — for  those  who  care 
for  it:  I  frankly  don't — outside  a  theatre.  But 
to  my  mind  the  idea  of  trying  to  throw  people 
into  fits  of  laughter  at  a  dinner  table  is  simply 
192 


Movies  (§  Motors,  3fen  (|  Women 

execrable  taste.  I  cannot  see  the  sense  of  peo- 
ple shrieking  with  laughter  at  dinner.  I  have, 
I  suppose,  a  better  sense  of  humour  than  most 
people.  But  to  my  mind  a  humorous  story 
should  be  told  quietly  and  slowly  in  a  way  to 
bring  out  the  point  of  the  humour  and  to  make 
it  quite  clear  by  preparing  for  it  with  proper 
explanations.  But  with  people  like  that  I  find 
I  no  sooner  get  well  started  with  a  story  than 
some  fool  or  other  breaks  in.  I  had  a  most 
amusing  experience  the  other  day — that  is, 
about  fifteen  years  ago — at  a  summer  hotel  in 
the  Adirondacks,  that  one  would  think  would 
have  amused  even  a  shallow  lot  of  people  like 
those,  but  I  had  no  sooner  started  to  tell  it — 
or  had  hardly  done  more  than  to  describe  the 
Adirondacks  in  a  general  way — than,  first  thing 
I  know,  my  hostess,  stupid  woman,  had  risen 
and  all  the  ladies  were  trooping  out. 

As  to  getting  in  a  word  edgeways  with  the 
men  over  the  cigars — perfectly  impossible! 
They're  worse  than  the  women.  They  were 
all  buzzing  round  the  infernal  Englishman  with 
questions  about  Flanders  and  the  army  at  the 
193 


Further  Foolishness 


front.  I  tried  in  vain  to  get  their  attention  for 
a  minute  to  give  them  my  impressions  of  the 
Belgian  peasantry  (during  my  visit  there  in 
1885),  but  my  host  simply  turned  to  me  for 
a  second  and  said,  "Have  some  more  port?" 
and  was  back  again  listening  to  the  asinine 
Englishman. 

And  when  we  went  upstairs  to  the  drawing- 
room  I  found  myself,  to  my  disgust,  side- 
tracked in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  that  su- 
preme old  jackass  of  a  professor — their  uncle, 
I  think,  or  something  of  the  sort.  In  all  my 
life  I  never  met  a  prosier  man.  He  bored  me 
blue  with  long  accounts  of  his  visit  to  Servia 
and  his  impressions  of  the  Servian  peasantry 
in  1875. 

I  should  have  left  early,  but  it  would  have 
been  too  noticeable. 

The  trouble  with  a  woman  like  that  is  that 
she  asks  the  wrong  people  to  her  parties. 


BUT, 


194 


Movies  &,  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

V 
HIS  LITTLE  SON 

You  haven't  seen  him?  Why,  that's  in- 
credible. You  must  have.  He  goes  past  your 
house  every  day  on  his  way  to  his  kindergarten. 
You  must  have  seen  him  a  thousand  times. 
And  he's  a  boy  you  couldn't  help  noticing. 
You'd  pick  that  boy  out  among  a  hundred, 
right  away.  "There's  a  remarkable  boy," 
you'd  say.  I  notice  people  always  turn  and 
look  at  him  on  the  street.  He's  just  the  image 
of  me.    Everybody  notices  it  at  once. 

How  old?  He's  twelve.  Twelve  and  two 
weeks  yesterday.  But  he's  so  bright  you'd 
think  he  was  fifteen.  And  the  things  he  says  1 
You'd  laugh !  I've  written  a  lot  of  them  down 
in  a  book  for  fear  of  losing  them.  Some  day 
when  you  come  up  to  the  house  I'll  read  them 
to  you.  Come  some  evening.  Come  early  so 
that  we'll  have  lots  of  time.  He  said  to  me  one 
day,  "Dad"  (he  always  calls  me  Dad),  "what 
makes  the  sky  blue?"  Pretty  thoughtful,  eh,, 
195 


Further  Foolishness 


for  a  little  fellow  of  twelve?  He's  always 
asking  questions  like  that.  I  wish  I  could  re- 
member half  of  them. 

And  I'm  bringing  him  up  right,  I  tell  you. 
I  got  him  a  little  savings  box  a  while  ago  and 
have  got  him  taught  to  put  all  his  money  in  it, 
and  not  give  any  of  it  away,  so  that  when  he 
grows  up  he'll  be  all  right. 

On  his  last  birthday  I  put  a  five  dollar  gold 
piece  into  it  for  him  and  explained  to  him  what 
five  dollars  meant,  and  what  a  lot  you  could 
do  with  it  if  you  hung  on  to  it.  You  ought 
to  have  seen  him  listen. 

"Dad,"  he  says,  "I  guess  you're  the  kindest 
man  in  the  world,  aren't  you?" 

Come  up  some  time  and  see  him. 


196 


XL— More  than  Twice  Told  Tales 

or 

Every  Man  His  Own  Hero 


( The  fmniUar  story  told  about  himself  by 
the  Commercial  Traveller  who  sold  goods  to 
the  man  who  was  regarded  as  impossible.) 

WHAT,"  they  said,  "you're  getting 
off  at  Midgeville?  You're  going 
to  give  the  Jones  Hardware  Com- 
pany a  try,  eh?" — and  then  they 
all  started  laughing  and  giving  me  the  merry 
ha !  ha !  Well,  I  just  got  my  grip  packed  and 
didn't  say  a  thing  and  when  the  train  slowed  up 
for  Midgeville,  out  I  slid.  "Give  my  love  to 
old  man  Jones,"  one  of  the  boys  called  after 
me,  "and  get  yourself  a  couple  of  porous  plas- 
ters and  a  pair  of  splints  before  you  tackle 
197 


Further  Foolishness 


him!" — and  then  they  all  gave  me  the  ha!  ha! 
again,  out  of  the  window  as  the  train  pulled 
out. 

Well,  I  walked  uptown  from  the  station  to 
the  Jones  Hardware  Company.  "Is  Mr.  Jones 
in  the  office?"  I  asked  of  one  of  the  young 
fellers  behind  the  counter.  "He's  in  the  of- 
fice," he  says,  "all  right,  but  I  guess  you  can't 
see  him,"  he  says — and  he  looked  at  my  grip. 
"What  name  shall  I  say?"  says  he.  "Don't 
say  any  name  at  all,"  I  says;  "just  open  the 
door  and  let  me  in." 

Well,  there  was  old  man  Jones  sitting  scowl- 
ing over  his  desk,  biting  his  pen  in  that  way 
he  has.  He  looked  up  when  I  came  in.  "See, 
here,  young  man,"  he  says,  "you  can't  sell  me 
any  hardware,"  he  says.  "Mr.  Jones,"  I  says, 
"I  don't  want  to  sell  you  any  hardware.  I'm 
not  here  to  sell  you  any  hardware.  I  know," 
I  says,  "as  well  as  you  do,"  I  says,  "that  I 
couldn't  sell  any  hardware  if  I  tried  to.  But," 
I  says,  "I  guess  it  don't  do  any  harm  to  open 
up  this  sample  case,  and  show  you  some  hard- 
ware," I  says.  "Young  man,"  says  he,  "if  you 
198 


Movies  (|  Motors,  Men  <§  Women 

start  opening  up  that  sample  case  in  here,  you'll 
lose  your  time,  that's  all" — and  he  turned  off 
sort  of  sideways  and  began  looking  over  some 
letters. 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Jones,"  I  says;  "that's 
all  right.  I'm  here  to  lose  my  time.  But  I'm 
not  going  out  of  this  room  till  you  take  a  look 
anyway  at  some  of  this  new  cutlery  I'm  car- 
rying." 

So  open  I  throws  my  sample  case  right  across 
the  end  of  his  desk.  "Look  at  that  knife,"  I 
says,  "Mr.  Jones.  Just  look  at  it:  clear  Shef- 
field at  three-thirty  the  dozen  and  they're  a  knife 
that  will  last  till  you  wear  the  haft  off  it." 
"Oh,  pshaw,"  he  growled,  "I  don't  want  no 
knives;  there's  nothing  in  knives " 

Well  I  knew  he  didn't  want  knives,  see?  I 
knew  it.  But  the  way  I  opened  up  the  sample 
case  it  showed  up,  just  by  accident  so  to  speak, 
a  box  of  those  new  electric  burners — adjustable, 
you  know — they'll  take  heat  off  any  size  of 
socket  you  like  and  use  it  for  any  mortal  thing 
in  the  house.  I  saw  old  Jones  had  his  eye  on 
them  in  a  minute.  "What's  those  things  you 
199 


Further  Foolishness 


got  there?"  he  growls,  "those  in  the  box?" 
"Oh,"  I  said,  "that's  just  a  new  line,"  I  said, 
"the  boss  wanted  me  to  take  along:  some  sort 
of  electric  rig  for  heating,"  I  said,  "but  I  don't 
think  there's  anything  to  it.  But  here,  now, 
Mr.  Jones,  is  a  spoon  I've  got  on  this  trip — 
it's  the  new  Delphide — you  can't  tell  that,  sir, 
from  silver,  no,  sir,"  I  says;  "I  defy  any  man, 
money  down,  to  tell  that  there  Delphide  from 
genuine  refined  silver,  and  they're  a  spoon 
that'll  last " 

"Let  me  see  one  of  those  burners,"  says  old 
man  Jones,  breaking  in. 

Well,  sir,  in  about  two  minutes  more,  I  had 
one  of  the  burners  fixed  on  to  the  light  socket, 
and  old  Jones,  with  his  coat  off,  boiling  water 
in  a  tin  cup  (out  of  the  store)  and  timing  it 
with  his  watch. 

The  next  day  I  pulled  into  Toledo  and  went 
and  joined  the  other  boys  up  to  the  Jefferson 
House.  "Well,"  they  says,  "have  you  got  that 
plaster  on?"  and  started  in  to  give  me  the  ha! 
ha  I  again.  "Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  says;  "I 
guess  this  is  some  plaster,  isn't  it?"  and  I  took 
200 


Movies  &,  Motors,  Men  (§  Women 

out  of  my  pocket  an  order  from  old  man  Jones 
for  two  thousand  adjustable  burners,  at  four- 
twenty  with  two  off.  "Some  plaster,  eh?"  I 
says. 

Well,  sir,  the  boys  looked  sick. 

Old  man  Jones  gets  all  his  stuff  from  our 
house  now.  Oh,  he  ain't  bad  at  all  when  you 
get  to  know  him. 

II 

{The  well  known  story  told  by  the  man  who 
has   once   had  a  strange  psychic   experience.) 

.  .  .  What  you  say  about  presentiments  re- 
minds me  of  a  strange  experience  that  I  had 
myself. 

I  was  sitting  by  myself  one  night  very  late, 
reading.  I  don't  remember  just  what  it  was  that 
I  was  reading.  I  think  it  was — or  no,  I  don't 
remember  what  it  was.  Well,  anyway,  I  was 
sitting  up  late  reading  quietly  till  it  got  pretty 
late  on  in  the  night.  I  don't  remember  just 
how  late  it  was — half-past  two,  I  think,  or  per- 
haps three — or,  no,  I  don't  remember.  But, 
20I 


Further  Foolishness 


anyway,  I  was  sitting  up  by  myself  very  late 
reading.  As  I  say,  it  was  late,  and  after  all  the 
noises  in  the  street  had  stopped,  the  house 
somehow  seemed  to  get  awfully  still  and  quiet. 
Well,  all  of  a  sudden  I  became  aware  of  a 
sort  of  strange  feeling — I  hardly  know  how  to 
describe  it — I  seemed  to  become  aware  of 
something,  as  if  something  were  near  me.  I 
put  down  my  book  and  looked  around,  but 
could  see  nothing.  I  started  to  read  again,  but 
I  hadn't  read  more  than  a  page,  or  say  a  page 
and  a  half — or  no,  not  more  than  a  page,  when 
again  all  of  a  sudden  I  felt  an  overwhelming 
sense  of — something.  I  can't  explain  just  what 
the  feeling  was,  but  a  queer  sense  as  if  there 
was  something  somewhere. 

Well,  I'm  not  of  a  timorous  disposition 
naturally — at  least  I  don't  think  I  am — but 
absolutely  I  felt  as  if  I  couldn't  stay  In  the 
room.  I  got  up  out  of  my  chair  and  walked 
down  the  stairs,  in  the  dark,  to  the  dining- 
room.  I  felt  all  the  way  as  if  some  one  were 
following  me.  Do  you  know,  I  was  absolutely 
trembling  when  I  got  into  the  dining-room  and 

202 


Movies  ^  Motors,  Men  &,  Women 


got  the  lights  turned  on.  I  walked  over  to  the 
sideboard  and  poured  myself  out  a  drink  of 
whiskey  and  soda.  As  you  know,  I  never  take 
anything  as  a  rule — or,  at  any  rate,  only  when 
I  am  sitting  round  talking  as  we  are  now — 
but  I  always  like  to  keep  a  decanter  of  whiskey 
in  the  house,  and  a  little  soda,  in  case  of  my 
wife  or  one  of  the  children  being  taken  ill 
in  the  night. 

Well,  I  took  a  drink  and  then  I  said  to 
myself,  I  said,  "See  here,  I'm  going  to  see  this 
thing  through."  So  I  turned  back  and  walked 
straight  upstairs  again  to  my  room.  I  fully 
expected  something  queer  was  going  to  happen 
and  was  prepared  for  it.  But  do  you  know 
when  I  walked  into  the  room  again,  the  feel- 
ing, or  presentiment,  or  whatever  it  was  I  had 
had,  was  absolutely  gone.  There  was  my  book 
lying  just  where  I  had  left  it  and  the  reading 
lamp  still  burning  on  the  table,  just  as  it  had 
been  and  my  chair  just  where  I  had  pushed  it 
back.  But  I  felt  nothing,  absolutely  nothing. 
I  sat  and  waited  a  while,  but  I  still  felt  nothing. 
I  went  downstairs  again,  to  put  out  the 
203 


Further  Foolishness 


lights  in  the  dining-room.  I  noticed,  as  I 
passed  the  sideboard,  that  I  was  still  shaking 
a  little.  So  I  took  a  small  drink  of  whiskey — 
though  as  a  rule  I  never  care  to  take  more 
than  one  drink — unless  when  I  am  sitting  talk- 
ing as  we  are  here. 

Well,  I  had  hardly  taken  it  when  I  felt  an 
odd  sort  of  psychic  feeling — a  sort  of  drowsi- 
ness. I  remember,  in  a  dim  way,  going  to  bed, 
and  then  I  remember  nothing  till  I  woke  up 
next  morning. 

And  here's  the  strange  part  of  it.  I  had 
hardly  got  down  to  the  office  after  breakfast 
when  I  got  a  wire  to  tell  me  that  my  mother- 
in-law  had  broken  her  arm  in  Cincinnati. 
Strange,  wasn't  it?  No,  not  at  half-past  two 
during  that  night — that's  the  inexplicable  part 
of  It.  She  had  broken  it  at  half-past  eleven 
the  morning  before.  But  you  notice  it  was 
half-past  in  each  case.  That's  the  queer  way 
these  things  go. 

Of  course,  I  don't  pretend  to  explain  it.  I 
suppose  it  simply  means  that  I  am  telepathic 
— that's  all.  I  imagine  that,  if  I  wanted  to,  I 
204 


Movies  (§  Motors^  Men  §  Women 

could  talk  with  the  dead  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing.  But  I  feel  somehow  that  I  don't  want 
to. 

Eh?  Thank  you,  I  will — though  I  seldom 
take  more  than — thanks,  thanks,  that's  plenty 
of  soda  in  it. 

Ill 

( The  familiar  narrative  in  which  the  Suc- 
cessful Business  Man  recounts  the  early  strug- 
gles by  which  he  made  good.) 

.  .  .  No,  sir,  I  had  no  early  advantages 
whatever.  I  was  brought  up  plain  and  hard — 
try  one  of  these  cigars;  they  cost  me  fifty  cents 
each.  In  fact,  I  practically  had  no  schooling 
at  all.  When  I  left  school,  I  didn't  know  how 
to  read,  not  to  read  good.  It's  only  since  I've 
been  in  business  that  I've  learned  to  write 
English,  that  is  so  as  to  use  it  right.  But  I'll 
guarantee  to  say  there  isn't  a  man  in  the  shoe 
business  to-day  can  write  a  better  letter  than 
I  can.  But  all  that  I  know  is  what  I've  learned 
myself.  Why,  I  can't  do  fractions  even  now. 
205 


Further  Foolishness 


I  don't  see  that  a  man  need.  And  I  never 
learned  no  geography,  except  what  I  got  for 
myself  off  railroad  folders.  I  don't  believe  a 
man  needs  more  than  that  anyway.  I've  got 
my  boy  at  Harvard  now.  His  mother  was  set 
on  it.  But  I  don't  see  that  he  learns  anything, 
or  nothing  that  will  help  him  any  in  business. 
They  say  they  learn  them  character  and  man- 
ners in  the  colleges,  but,  as  I  see  it,  a  man  can 
get  all  that  just  as  well  in  business — is  that  wine 
all  right?  If  not,  tell  me  and  I'll  give  the  head 
waiter  hell;  they  charge  enough  for  it;  what 
you're  drinking  costs  me  four-fifty  a  bottle. 
But  I  was  starting  to  tell  you  about  my  early 
start  in  business.  I  had  it  good  and  hard  all 
right.  Why  when  I  struck  New  York — I  was 
sixteen  then — I  had  just  eighty  cents  to  my 
name.  I  lived  on  it  for  nearly  a  week  while  I 
was  walking  round  hunting  for  a  job.  I  used  to 
get  soup  for  three  cents,  and  roast  beef  with 
potatoes,  all  you  could  eat,  for  eight  cents, 
that  tasted  better  than  anything  I  can  ever 
get  in  this  damn  club.  It  was  down  somewhere 
206 


Movies  (§  3lotors,  Men  S^  Women 

on  Sixth  Avenue,  but  I've  forgotten  the  way 
to  it. 

Well,  about  the  sixth  day  I  got  a  job,  down 
in  a  shoe  factory,  working  on  a  machine.  I 
guess  you've  never  seen  shoe-machinery,  have 
you?  No,  you  wouldn't  likely.  It's  compli- 
cated. Even  in  those  days  there  was  thirty-five 
machines  went  to  the  making  of  a  shoe,  and 
now  we  use  as  many  as  fifty-four.  I'd  never 
seen  the  machines  before,  but  the  foreman  took 
me  on.  "You  look  strong,"  he  said;  "I'll  give 
you  a  try  anyway." 

So  I  started  in.  I  didn't  know  anything. 
But  I  made  good  from  the  first  day,  I  got  four 
a  week  at  the  start,  and  after  two  months  I 
got  a  raise  to  four-twenty-five. 

Well,  after  I'd  worked  there  about  three 
months,  I  went  up  to  the  floor  manager  of  the 
flat  I  worked  on,  and  I  said,  "Say,  Mr.  Jones, 
do  you  want  to  save  ten  dollars  a  week  on  ex- 
penses?" "How?"  says  he.  "Why,"  I  said, 
"that  foreman  I'm  working  under  on  the  ma- 
chine, I've  watched  him,  and  I  can  do  his  job; 
dismiss  him  and  I'll  take  over  his  work  at  half 
207 


Further  Foolishness 


what  you  pay  him."  "Can  you  do  the  work?" 
he  says.  "Try  me  out,"  I  said;  "fire  him  and 
give  me  a  chance."  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  like 
your  spirit  anyway;  you've  got  the  right  sort  of 
stuff  in  you." 

So  he  fired  the  foreman  and  I  took  over  the 
job  and  held  it  down.  It  was  hard  at  first,  but 
I  worked  twelve  hours  a  day,  and  studied  up  a 
book  on  factory  machinery  at  night.  Well, 
after  I'd  been  on  that  work  for  about  a  year, 
I  went  in  one  day  to  the  general  manager  down- 
stairs, and  I  said,  "Mr.  Thompson,  do  you 
want  to  save  about  a  hundred  dollars  a  month 
on  your  overhead  costs?"  "How  can  I  do 
that?"  says  he.  "Sit  down."  "Why,"  I  said, 
"you  dismiss  Mr.  Jones  and  give  me  his  place 
as  manager  of  the  floor,  and  I'll  undertake  to 
do  his  work,  and  mine  with  it,  at  a  hundred 
less  than  you're  paying  now."  He  turned  and 
went  into  the  inner  office,  and  I  could  hear 
him  talking  to  Mr.  Evans,  the  managing  di- 
rector. "The  young  fellow  certainly  has  char- 
acter," I  heard  him  say.  Then  he  came  out 
and  he  said,  "Well,  we're  going  to  give  you  a 
208 


Movies  <§  Motors^  31en  (|  Women 

try  anyway:  we  like  to  help  out  our  employes 
all  we  can,  you  know;  and  you've  got  the  sort 
of  stuff  in  you  that  we're  looking  for." 

So  they  dismissed  Jones  next  day  and  I 
took  over  his  job  and  did  it  easy.  It  was  noth- 
ing anyway.  The  higher  up  you  get  in  business, 
the  easier  it  is  if  you  know  how.  I  held  that 
job  two  years,  and  I  saved  all  my  salary  ex- 
cept twenty-five  dollars  a  month,  and  I  lived 
on  that.  I  never  spent  any  money  anyway. 
I  went  once  to  see  Irving  do  this  Macbeth  for 
twenty-five  cents,  and  once  I  went  to  a  concert 
and  saw  a  man  play  the  violin  for  fifteen  cents 
in  the  gallery.  But  I  don't  believe  you  get 
much  out  of  the  theatre  anyway;  as  I  see  it, 
there's  nothing  to  it. 

Well,  after  a  while  I  went  one  day  to  Mr. 
Evans'  office  and  I  said,  "Mr.  Evans,  I  want 
you  to  dismiss  Mr.  Thompson,  the  general 
manager."  "Why,  what's  he  done?"  he  says. 
"Nothing,"  I  said,  "but  I  can  take  over  his 
job  on  top  of  mine  and  you  can  pay  me  the 
salary  you  give  him  and  save  what  you're  pay- 
ing me  now."  "Sounds  good  to  me,"  he  says. 
209 


Further  Foolishness 


So  they  let  Thompson  go  and  I  took  his  place. 
That,  of  course,  is  where  I  got  my  real  start, 
because,  you  see,  I  could  control  the  output  and 
run  the  costs  up  and  down  just  where  I  liked. 
I  suppose  you  don't  know  anything  about  costs 
and  all  that — they  don't  teach  that  sort  of 
thing  in  colleges — but  even  you  would  under- 
stand something  about  dividends  and  would  see 
that  an  energetic  man  with  lots  of  character  and 
business  in  him,  if  he's  general  manager  can 
just  do  what  he  likes  with  the  costs,  especially 
the  overhead,  and  the  shareholders  have  just 
got  to  take  what  he  gives  them  and  be  glad 
to.  You  see  they  can't  fire  him — not  when  he's 
got  it  all  in  his  own  hands — for  fear  it  will 
all  go  to  pieces. 

Why  would  I  want  to  run  it  that  way  for? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  had  a  notion  by  that 
time  that  the  business  was  getting  so  big  that 
Mr.  Evans,  the  managing  director,  and  most 
of  the  board  had  pretty  well  lost  track  of  the 
details  and  didn't  understand  it.  There's  an 
awful  lot,  you  know,  in  the  shoe  business.  It's 
not   like    ordinary   things.      It's    complicated. 

2IO 


Movies  (§  31otors,  Men  (|  Women 

And  so  I'd  got  an  Idea  that  I  would  shove  them 
clean  out  of  it — or  most  of  them. 

So  I  went  one  night  to  see  the  president,  old 
Guggenbaum,  up  at  his  residence.  He  didn't 
only  have  this  business,  but  he  was  in  a  lot  of 
other  things  as  well,  and  he  was  a  mighty  hard 
man  to  see.  He  wouldn't  let  any  man  see  him 
unless  he  knew  first  what  he  was  going  to  say. 
But  I  went  up  to  his  residence  at  night,  and  I 
saw  him  there.  I  talked  first  with  his  daughter, 
and  I  said  I  just  had  to  see  him.  I  said  it  so 
she  didn't  dare  refuse.  There's  a  way  in  talk- 
ing to  women  that  they  won't  say  no. 

So  I  showed  Mr.  Guggenbaum  what  I  could 
do  with  the  stock.  "I  can  put  that  dividend," 
I  says,  "clean  down  to  zero — and  they'll  none 
of  them  know  why.  You  can  buy  the  lot  of 
them  out  at  your  own  price,  and  after  that  I'll 
put  the  dividend  back  to  fifteen,  or  even  twenty, 
in  two  years." 

"And  where  do  you  come  in?"  says  the  old 
man,  with  a  sort  of  hard  look.  He  had  a  fine 
business  head,  the  old  man,  at  least  in  those 
days. 

211 


Further  Foolishness 


So  I  explained  to  him  where  I  came  in.  "All 
right,"  he  said;  "go  ahead.  But  I'll  put  noth- 
ing in  writing."  "Mr.  Guggenbaum,  you  don't 
need  to,"  I  said;  "you're  as  fair  and  square  as 
I  am  and  that's  enough  for  me." 

His  daughter  let  me  out  of  the  house  door 
when  I  went.  I  guess  she'd  been  pretty  scared 
that  she'd  done  wrong  about  letting  me  in.  But 
I  said  to  her  it  was  all  right,  and  after  that 
when  I  wanted  to  see  the  old  man  I'd  always 
ask  for  her  and  she'd  see  that  I  got  in  all  right. 

Got  them  squeezed  out?  Oh,  yes,  easy. 
There  wasn't  any  trouble  about  that.  You  see 
the  old  man  worked  up  a  sort  of  jolt  in  whole- 
sale leather  on  one  side,  and  I  fixed  up  a  strike 
of  the  hands  on  the  other.  We  passed  the 
dividend  two  quarters  running,  and  within  a 
year  we  had  them  all  scared  out  and  the  bulk 
of  the  little  stockholders,  of  course,  trooped 
out  after  them.  They  always  do.  The  old 
man  picked  up  the  stock  when  they  dropped  it, 
and  one-half  of  it  he  handed  over  to  me. 

That's  what  put  me  where  I  am  now,  do  you 
see,  with  the  whole  control  of  the  industry  in 

212 


Movies  (§  Motors,  31  en  <|  Women 

two  states  and  more  than  that  now,  because  we 
have  the  Amalgamated  Tanneries  in  with  us, 
so  it's  practically  all  one  concern. 

Guggenbaum?  Did  I  squeeze  him  out?  No, 
I  didn't  because,  you  see,  I  didn't  have  to.  The 
way  it  was — well,  I  tell  you — I  used  to  go  up  to 
the  house,  see,  to  arrange  things  with  him — 
and  the  way  it  was — why,  you  see,  I  married 
his  daughter,  see,  so  I  didn't  exactly  need  to 
squeeze  him  out.  He  lives  up  with  us  now, 
but  he's  pretty  old  and  past  business.  In  fact, 
I  do  it  all  for  him  now,  and  pretty  well  every- 
thing he  has  is  signed  over  to  my  wife.  She 
has  no  head  for  it,  and  she's  sort  of  timid 
anyway — always  was — so  I  manage  it  all.  Of 
course,  if  anything  happens  to  the  old  man,  then 
we  get  it  all.  I  don't  think  he'll  last  long. 
I  notice  him  each  day,  how  weak  he's  getting. 

My  son  in  the  business?  Well,  I'd  like  him 
to  be.  But  he  don't  seem  to  take  to  It  some- 
how— I'm  afraid  he  takes  more  after  his 
mother;  or  else  it's  the  college  that's  doing  it. 
Somehow,  I  don't  think  the  colleges  bring  out 
business  character,  do  you? 
213 


XII— A  Study  in  Still  Life— My 
Tailor 

HE    always    stands    there — and    has 
stood    these    thirty    years — in    the 
back    part    of    his    shop,    his    tape 
woven   about   his   neck,    a   smile   of 
welcome  on  his  face,  waiting  to  greet  me. 

"Something  in  a  serge?"  he  says,  "or  per- 
haps in  a  tweed?" 

There  are  only  these  two  choices  open  to  us. 
We  have  had  no  others  for  thirty  years.  It 
is  too  late  to  alter  now. 

"A  serge,  yes,"  continues  my  tailor,  "some- 
thing in  a  dark  blue,  perhaps." 

He  says  it  with  all  the  gusto  of  a  new  idea, 
as  if  the  thought  of  dark  blue  had  sprung  up 
as  an  inspiration — "a  dark  blue — Mr.  Jen- 
nings" (this  is  his  assistant) ,  "kindly  take  down 
some  of  those  dark  blues." 

"Ah!"  he  exclaims,  "now  here  is  an  excel- 
214 


Movies  (§  3Iotors,  Men  S^  Women 

lent  thing."  His  manner  as  he  says  this  is 
such  as  to  suggest  that  by  sheer  good  fortune 
and  blind  chance  he  has  stumbled  upon  a  thing 
among  a  million. 

He  lifts  one  knee  and  drapes  the  cloth  over 
it,  standing  upon  one  leg.  He  knows  that  in 
this  attitude  it  is  hard  to  resist  him.  Cloth  to 
be  appreciated  as  cloth  must  be  viewed  over 
the  bended  knee  of  a  tailor  with  one  leg  in  the 
air. 

My  tailor  can  stand  in  this  way  indefinitely, 
on  one  leg  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  a  kind  of  local 
paralysis. 

"Would  that  make  up  well?"  I  ask  him. 

"Admirably,"  he  answers. 

I  have  no  real  reason  to  doubt  it.  I  have 
never  seen  any  reason  why  cloth  should  not 
make  up  well.  But  I  always  ask  the  question 
as  I  know  that  he  expects  it  and  it  pleases  him. 
There  ought  to  be  a  fair  give  and  take  in  such 
things. 

"You  don't  think  it  at  all  loud?"  I  say.  He 
always  likes  to  be  asked  this. 

"Oh,  no,  very  quiet  indeed.  In  fact  we  al- 
215 


Further  Foolishness 


ways   recommend   serge    as   extremely   quiet." 

I  have  never  had  a  wild  suit  in  my  life.  But 
it  is  well  to  ask. 

Then  he  measures  me — round  the  chest, 
nowhere  else.  All  the  other  measures  were 
taken  years  ago.  Even  the  chest  measure  is 
only  done — and  I  know  it — to  please  me.  I 
do  not  really  grow. 

"A  little  fuller  in  the  chest,"  my  tailor  muses. 
Then  he  turns  to  his  assistant.  "Mr.  Jennings, 
a  little  fuller  in  the  chest — half  an  inch  on 
to  the  chest,  please." 

It  is  a  kind  fiction.  Growth  around  the  chest 
is  flattering  even  to  the  humblest  of  us. 

"Yes,"  my  tailor  goes  on — he  uses  "yes" 
without  any  special  meaning,  "yes,  and  shall 
we  say  a  week  from  Tuesday?  Mr.  Jennings, 
a  week  from  Tuesday,  please." 

"And  will  you  please,"  I  say,  "send  the  bill 

to "  but  my  tailor  waves  this  aside.     He 

does  not  care  to  talk  about  the  bill.  It  would 
only  give  pain  to  both  of  us  to  speak  of  it. 

The  bill  is  a  matter  we  deal  with  solely  by 
216 


Movies  (§  Motors,  Men  (§  Women 

correspondence,  and  that  only  in  a  decorous  and 
refined  style  never  calculated  to  hurt. 

I  am  sure  from  the  tone  of  my  tailor's  let- 
ters that  he  would  never  send  the  bill,  or  ask 
for  the  amount,  were  it  not  that  from  time  to 
time  he  is  himself,  unfortunately,  "pressed" 
owing  to  "large  consignments  from  Europe." 
But  for  these  heavy  consignments,  I  am  sure 
I  should  never  need  to  pay  him.  It  is  true 
that  I  have  sometimes  thought  to  observe  that 
these  consignments  are  apt  to  arrive  when  I 
pass  the  limit  of  owing  for  two  suits  and  order 
a  third.  But  this  can  only  be  a  mere  coin- 
cidence. 

Yet  the  bill,  as  I  say,  is  a  thing  that  we 
never  speak  of.  Instead  of  it  my  tailor  passes 
to  the  weather.  Ordinary  people  always  begin 
with  this  topic.  Tailors,  I  notice,  end  with  It. 
It  Is  only  broached  after  the  suit  is  ordered, 
never  before. 

"Pleasant  weather  we  are  having,"  he  says. 
It  is  never  other,  so  I  notice,  with  him.  Per- 
haps the  order  of  a  suit  Itself  Is  a  little  beam 
of  sunshine. 

217 


Further  Foolishness 


Then  we  move  together  towards  the  front 
of  the  store  on  the  way  to  the  outer  door. 

"Nothing  to-day,  I  suppose,"  says  my  tailor, 
"in  shirtings?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

This  is  again  a  mere  form.  In  thirty  years 
I  have  never  bought  any  shirtings  from  him. 
Yet  he  asks  the  question  with  the  same  win- 
someness  as  he  did  thirty  years  ago. 

"And  nothing,  I  suppose,  in  collaring  or  in 
hosiery?" 

This  again  is  futile.  Collars  I  buy  elsewhere 
and  hosiery  I  have  never  worn. 

Thus  we  walk  to  the  door,  in  friendly  col- 
loquy. Somehow  if  he  failed  to  speak  of  shirt- 
ings and  of  hosiery,  I  should  feel  as  if  a  fa- 
miliar cord  had  broken. 

At  the  door  we  part. 

"Good  afternoon,"  he  says — "a  week  from 
Tuesday — yes — good   afternoon." 

Such  is — or  was — our  calm  unsullied  inter- 
course, unvaried   or   at   least  broken   only  by 
consignments  from  Europe. 
218 


Movies  (|  Motors,  Men  6^  Women 

I  say  it  was,  that  is  until  just  the  other  day. 

And  then,  coming  to  the  familiar  door,  for 
my  customary  summer  suit,  I  found  that  he 
was  there  no  more.  There  were  people  in  the 
store,  unloading  shelves  and  piling  cloth  and 
taking  stock.  And  they  told  me  that  he  was 
dead.  It  came  to  me  with  a  strange  shock. 
I  had  not  thought  it  possible.  He  seemed — 
he  should  have  been — immortal. 

They  said  the  worry  of  his  business  had 
helped  to  kill  him.  I  could  not  have  believed 
it.  It  always  seemed  so  still  and  tranquil — 
weaving  his  tape  about  his  neck  and  marking 
measures  and  holding  cloth  against  his  leg  be- 
side the  sunlight  of  the  window  in  the  back 
part  of  the  shop.  Can  a  man  die  of  that? 
Yet  he  had  been  "going  behind,"  they  said 
(however  that  is  done),  for  years.  His  wife, 
they  told  me,  would  be  left  badly  off.  I  had 
never  conceived  him  as  having  a  wife.  But 
it  seemed  that  he  had,  and  a  daughter,  too — 
Bt  a  conservatory  of  music — (yet  he  never 
spoke  of  her) — and  that  he  himself  was  musi- 
cal and  played  the  flute,  and  was  the  sidesman 
219 


Further  Foolishness 


of  a  church — yet  he  never  referred  to  it  to  me. 
In  fact,  in  thirty  years  we  never  spoke  of  re- 
ligion. It  was  hard  to  connect  him  with  the 
idea  of  it. 

As  I  went  out  I  seemed  to  hear  his  voice 
still  saying,  "and  nothing  to-day  in  shirtings?" 

I  was  sorry  I  had  never  bought  any. 

There  is,  I  am  certain,  a  deep  moral  in  this. 
But  I  will  not  try  to  draw  it.  It  might  appear 
too  obvious. 


220 


FOLLIES  IN  FICTION 


XIII. — Stories   Shorter    Still 


{Among  the  latest  follies  in  fiction  is  the 
perpetual  demand  for  stories  shorter  and 
shorter  still.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  meet 
this  demand  at  the  source  and  check  it.  Any 
of  the  stories  below,  if  left  to  soak  overnight 
in  a  barrel  of  rainwater,  will  swell  to  the  di- 
mensions of  a  dollar-fifty  novel.) 


AN   IRREDUCIBLE    DETECTIVE 
STORY 

Hanged  by  a  Hair 

OR 

A  Murder  Mystery  Minimised 

THE    mystery    had    now    reached    its 
climax.      First,    the    man    had   been 
undoubtedly  murdered.     Secondly,  it 
was  absolutely  certain  that  no  con- 
ceivable person  had  done  it. 
223 


Further  Foolishness 


It  was  therefore  time  to  call  in  the  great 
detective. 

He  gave  one  searching  glance  at  the  corpse. 
In  a  moment  he  whipped  out  a  microscope. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  said,  as  he  picked  a  hair  off 
the  lapel  of  the  dead  man's  coat.  "The  mys- 
tery is  now  solved." 

He  held  up  the  hair. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  "we  have  only  to  find  the 
man  who  lost  this  hair  and  the  criminal  is  in 
our  hands." 

The  inexorable  chain  of  logic  was  com- 
plete. 

The  detective  set  himself  to  the  search. 

For  four  days  and  nights  he  moved,  unob- 
served, through  the  streets  of  New  York  scan- 
ning closely  every  face  he  passed,  looking  for 
a  man  who  had  lost  a  hair. 

On  the  fifth  day  he  discovered  a  man,  dis- 
guised as  a  tourist,  his  head  enveloped  in  a 
steamer  cap  that  reached  below  his  ears.  The 
man  was  about  to  go  on  board  the  Gloritania. 

The  detective  followed  him  on  board. 

"Arrest  him!"  he  said,  and  then  drawing 
224 


Follies  in  Fiction 


himself  to  his  full  height,  he  brandished  aloft 
the  hair. 

"This  is  his,"  said  the  great  detective.  "It 
proves  his  guilt." 

"Remove  his  hat,"  said  the  ship's  captain 
sternly. 

They  did  so. 

The  man  was  entirely  bald. 

"Ha!"  said  the  great  detective,  without  a 
moment  of  hesitation.  "He  has  committed  not 
one  murder  but  about  a  million." 

II 

A  COMPRESSED  OLD  ENGLISH 
NOVEL 

SWEARV^^ORD   THE    UnPRCJNOUNCEABLE 

CHAPTER  ONE  AND  ONLY 

"Ods  bodikins!"  exclaimed  Swearword  the 
Saxon,  wiping  his  mailed  brow  with  his  iron 
hand,  "a  fair  morn  withal!  Methinks  twert 
lithlier  to  rest  me  in  yon  glade  than  to  foray  me 
forth  in  yon  fray!  Twert  it  not?" 
225 


Further  Foolishness 


But  there  happened  to  be  a  real  Anglo- 
Saxon  standing  by, 

"Where  in  Heaven's  name,"  he  said  in  sud- 
den passion,  "did  you  get  that  line  of  English?" 

"Churl!"  said  Swearword,  "it  is  Anglo- 
Saxon." 

"You're  a  liar!"  shouted  the  Saxon;  "it  is 
not.  It  is  Harvard  College,  Sophomore  Year, 
Option  No.    6." 

Swearword,  now  in  like  fury,  threw  aside  his 
hauberk,  his  baldrick,  and  his  needlework  on 
the  grass. 

"Lay  on!"  said  Swearword. 

"Have  at  you!"  cried  the  Saxon. 

They  laid  on  and  had  at  one  another. 

Swearword   was   killed. 

Thus  luckily  the  whole  story  was  cut  off 
on  the  first  page  and  ended. 


226 


Follies  in  Fiction 


III 

A  CONDENSED  INTERMINABLE 
NOVEL 

From  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave 

OR 

A  Thousand  Pages  for  a  Dollar 

Note.     (  This  story  originally  contained  two 

hundred  and  fifty  thousand  words.     But  by  a 

marvellous  feat  of  condensation  it  is  reduced, 

without  the  slightest  loss,    to   a  hundred  and 

six  words.) 

I 

Edward    Endless    lived    during    his    youth 

in  Maine, 

in  New  Hampshire, 

in  Vermont, 

in  Massachusetts, 

in  Rhode  Island, 

in  Connecticut. 
II 

Then  the  lure  of  the  city  lured  him.     His 
fate  took  him  to 

227 


Further  Foolishness 


New   York,   to    Chicago,   and   to   Philadel- 
phia. 
In  Chicago  he  lived, 

in  a  boarding  house  on  Lasalle  Avenue, 
then  he  boarded, — 
•  in  a  living  house  on  Michigan  Avenue. 
In  New  York  he 

had  a  room  in  an  eating  house  on  Forty- 
first  Street, 
and  then, — 

ate  in  a  rooming  house  on  Forty-second 
Street. 
In  Philadelphia  he 

used  to  sleep  on  Chestnut  Street, 
and  then, — 
slept  on  Maple  Street. 
During  all  this  time  women  were  calling  to 
him.    He  knew  and  came  to  be  friends  with, — 
Margaret  Jones, 

Elizabeth  Smith, 

Arabella  Thompson, 
Jane  Williams, 

Maud    Taylor. 
228 


Follies  in  Fiction 


And  he  also  got  to  know,  pretty  well, 
Louise   Quelquechose, 

Antoinette  Alphabette, 

and  Estelle  Etcetera. 
And   during  this   same   time  Art  began  to 
call  him, — 

Pictures  began  to  appeal  to  him. 
Statues  beckoned  to  him, 
Music  maddened  him, 

and  any  form  of  Recitation  or  Elo- 
cution drove  him  beside  himself. 

Ill 

Then,  one  day,  he  married  Margaret  Jones. 
As  soon  as  he  had  married  her 
he  was  disillusioned. 

He  now  hated  her. 
Then  he  lived  with  Elizabeth  Smith, — 

He  had  no  sooner  sat  down  with  her,  than, — 

He  hated  her. 
Half  mad,  he  took  his  things  over  to  Ara- 
bella Thompson's  flat  to  live  with  her. 
229 


Further  Foolishness 


The   moment  she   opened  the   door   of  the 
apartment,  he  loathed  her. 

He  saw  her  as  she  was. 
Driven  sane  with  despair,  he  then, — 
(Our  staff   here   cut  the   story  off.     There 
are  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  pages  after  this. 
They  show  Edward  Endless  grappling  in  the 
fight  for  clean  politics.    The  last  hundred  pages 
deal  with  religion.     Edward  finds  it  after  a  big 
fight.     But  no  one  reads  these  pages.     There 
are  no  women  in  them.    Our  staff  cut  them  out 
and  merely  show  at  the  end, — 
Edward  Purified, — 

Uplifted, — 

Transluted. 
The  whole  story  is  perhaps  the  biggest  thing 
ever  done  on  this  continent.     Perhaps!) 


230 


XIV. — The  Snoopopaths 
or  Fifty  Stories  in  One 

THIS  particular  study  in  the  follies  of 
literature  is  not  so  much  a  story  as 
a  sort  of  essay.  The  average  reader 
will  therefore  turn  from  it  with  a 
shudder.  The  condition  of  the  average  read- 
er's mind  is  such  that  he  can  take  in  nothing 
but  fiction.  And  it  must  be  thin  fiction  at  that 
— thin  as  gruel.  Nothing  else  will  "sit  on  his 
stomach." 

Everything  must  come  to  the  present  day 
reader  in  this  form.  If  you  wish  to  talk  to 
him  about  religion,  you  must  dress  it  up  as 
a  story  and  label  it  Beth-sheba,  or  The  Curse 
of  David;  if  you  want  to  improve  the  reader's- 
morals,  you  must  write  him  a  little  thing  in 
dialogue  called  Mrs.  Potiphar  Dines  Out.  If 
you  wish  to  expostulate  with  him  about  drink 
231 


Further  Foolishness 


you  must  do  so  through  a  narrative  called 
Red  Rum — short  enough  and  easy  enough  for 
him  to  read  it,  without  overstraining  his  mind, 
while  he  drinks  cocktails. 

But  whatever  the  story  is  about  it  has  got 
to  deal — in  order  to  be  read  by  the  average 
reader— with  A  MAN  and  A  WOMAN.  I 
put  these  words  in  capitals  to  indicate  that 
they  have  got  to  stick  out  of  the  story  with  the 
crudity  of  a  drawing  done  by  a  child  with  a 
burnt  stick.  In  other  words,  the  story  has  got 
to  be  snoopopathic.  This  is  a  word  derived 
from  the  Greek  — "snoopo" — or  if  there  never 
was  a  Greek  verb  snoopo,  at  least  there  ought 
to  have  been  one — and  it  means  just  what  it 
seems  to  mean.  Nine  out  of  ten  short  stories 
written  in  America  are  snoopopathic. 

In  snoopopathic  literature,  in  order  to  get 
its  full  effect,  the  writer  generally  introduces 
his  characters  simply  as  "the  man"  and  "the 
woman."  He  hates  to  admit  that  they  have 
names.  He  opens  out  with  them  something 
after  this  fashion: 

"The  Man  lifted  his  head.  He  looked  about 
232 


Follies  in  Fiction 


him  at  the  gally-bedlzzled  crowd  that  be- 
splotched  the  midnight  cabaret  with  riotous 
patches  of  colour.  He  crushed  his  cigar 
against  the  brass  of  an  Egyptian  tray — 'Bah!' 
he  murmured,  'Is  it  worth  it?'  Then  he  let 
his  head  sink  again." 

You  notice  it?  He  lifted  his  head  all  the 
way  up  and  let  it  sink  all  the  way  down,  and 
you  still  don't  know  who  he  is. 

For  The  Woman  the  beginning  is  done  like 
this: 

"The  Woman  clenched  her  white  hands 
till  the  diamonds  that  glittered  upon  her  fingers 
were  buried  in  the  soft  flesh.  'The  shame  of 
it,'  she  murmured.  Then  she  took  from  the 
table  the  telegram  that  lay  crumpled  upon  it 
and  tore  it  into  a  hundred  pieces.  'He  dare 
not!'  she  muttered  through  her  closed  teeth. 
She  looked  about  the  hotel  room  with  its  garish 
furniture.  'He  has  no  right  to  follow  me  here,' 
she  gasped." 

All  of  which  the  reader  has  to  take  in  with- 
out knowing  who  the  woman  is,  or  which  hotel 
she  is  staying  at,  or  who  dare  not  follow  her 
233 


Further  Foolislmess 


or  why.  But  the  modern  reader  loves  to  get 
this  sort  of  shadowy  incomplete  effect.  If  he 
were  told  straight  out  that  the  woman's  name 
was  Mrs.  Edward  Dangerfield  of  Brick.  City, 
Montana,  and  that  she  had  left  her  husband 
three  days  ago  and  that  the  telegram  told  her 
that  he  had  discovered  her  address  and  was 
following  her,  the  reader  would  refuse  to  go 
on. 

This  method  of  introducing  the  characters 
is  bad  enough.  But  the  new  snoopopathic  way 
of  describing  them  is  still  worse.  The  Man 
is  always  detailed  as  if  he  were  a  horse.  He 
is  said  to  be  "tall,  well  set  up,  with  straight 
legs." 

Great  stress  is  always  laid  on  his  straight 
legs.  No  magazine  story  is  acceptable  now 
unless  The  Man's  legs  are  absolutely  straight. 
Why  this  is,  I  don't  know.  All  my  friends  have 
straight  legs — and  yet  I  never  hear  them  make 
it  a  subject  of  comment  or  boasting.  I  don't 
believe  I  have,  at  present,  a  single  friend  with 
crooked  legs. 

But  this  is  not  the  only  requirement.  Not 
234 


Follies  in  Fiction 


only  must  The  Man's  legs  be  straight,  but  he 
must  be  "clean-limbed,"  whatever  that  is;  and 
of  course  he  must  have  a  "well-tubbed  look 
about  him."  How  this  look  is  acquired,  and 
whether  it  can  be  got  with  an  ordinary  bath 
and  water,  are  things  on  which  I  have  no 
opinion. 

The  Man  is  of  course  "clean-shaven."  This 
allows  him  to  do  such  necessary  things  as  "turn- 
ing his  clean-shaven  face  towards  the  speaker," 
"laying  his  clean-shaven  cheek  in  his  hand," 
and  so  on.  But  every  one  is  familiar  with  the 
face  of  the  up-to-date  clean-shaven  snoopo- 
pathic  man.  There  are  pictures  of  him  by  the 
million  on  magazine  covers  and  book  jackets, 
looking  into  the  eyes  of  The  Woman — he  does 
it  from  a  distance  of  about  six  inches — with 
that  snoopy  earnest  expression  of  brainlessness 
that  he  always  wears.  How  one  would  enjoy 
seeing  a  man — a  real  one  with  Nevada  whis- 
kers and  long  boots — land  him  one  solid  kick 
from  behind. 

Then  comes  The  Woman  of  the  snoopo- 
pathic  story.  She  is  always  "beautifully 
235 


Further  Foolishness 


groomed"  (Who  these  grooms  are  that  do  it, 
and  where  they  can  be  hired,  I  don't  know), 
and  she  is  said  to  be  "exquisitely  gowned." 

It  is  pecuHar  about  The  Woman  that  she 
never  seems  to  wear  a  dress — always  a 
"gown."  Why  this  is,  I  cannot  tell.  In  the 
good  old  stories  that  I  used  to  read,  when  I 
could  still  read  for  the  pleasure  of  it,  the 
heroines — that  was  what  they  used  to  be 
called — always  wore  dresses.  But  now  there 
is  no  heroine,  only  a  woman  in  a  gown.  I 
wear  a  gown  myself — at  night.  It  is  made 
of  flannel  and  reaches  to  my  feet,  and  when 
I  take  my  candle  and  go  out  to  the  balcony 
where  I  sleep,  the  effect  of  it  on  the  whole  is 
not  bad.  But  as  to  its  "revealing  every  line 
of  my  figure" — as  The  Woman's  gown  is  al- 
ways said  to — and  as  to  its  "suggesting  even 
more  than  it  reveals" — well,  it  simply  does  not. 
So  when  I  talk  of  "gowns"  I  speak  of  some- 
thing that  I  know  all  about. 

Yet  whatever  The  Woman  does,  her  "gown" 
is  said  to  "cling"  to  her.  Whether  in  the 
street  or  in  a  cabaret  or  in  the  drawing-room, 
236 


Follies  in  Fiction 


it  "clings."  If  by  any  happy  chance  she  throws 
a  lace  wrap  about  her,  then  it  clings;  and  if 
she  lifts  her  gown — as  she  is  apt  to — it  shows 
— not  what  I  should  have  expected — but  a 
jupon,  and  even  that  clings.  What  a  jtipon  is 
I  don't  know.  With  my  gown,  I  never  wear 
one.  These  people  I  have  described,  The  Man 
and  The  Woman — The  Snoopopaths — are,  of 
course,  not  husband  and  wife,  or  brother  and 
sister,  or  anything  so  simple  and  old-fashioned 
as  that.  She  is  some  one  else's  wife.  She  is 
The  JFife  of  the  Other  Man.  Just  what  there 
is,  for  the  reader,  about  other  men's  wives,  I 
don't  understand.  I  know  tons  of  them  that  I 
wouldn't  walk  round  a  block  for.  But  the 
reading  public  goes  wild  over  them.  The  old- 
fashioned  heroine  was  unmarried.  That  spoiled 
the  whole  story.  You  could  see  the  end  from 
the  beginning.  But  with  Another  Man's  Wife, 
the  way  is  blocked.  Something  has  got  to 
happen  that  would  seem  almost  obvious  to 
any  one. 

The  writer,  therefore,  at  once  puts  the  two 
snoopos — The  Man  and  The  Woman — into  a 

237 


Further  Foolishness 


frightfully  Indelicate  position.  The  more  in- 
delicate it  is,  the  better.  Sometimes  she  gets 
into  his  motor  by  accident  after  the  theatre, 
or  they  both  engage  the  drawing-room  of  a 
Pullman  car  by  mistake,  or  else,  best  of  all, 
he  is  brought  accidentally  into  her  room  at  a 
hotel  at  night.  There  is  something  about  a 
hotel  room  at  night,  apparently,  which  throws 
the  modern  reader  into  convulsions.  It  is  al- 
ways easy  to  arrange  a  scene  of  this  sort.  For 
example,  taking  the  sample  beginning  that  I 
gave  above.  The  Man — whom  I  left  sitting  at 
the  cabaret  table,  above,  rises  unsteadily — it  is 
the  recognised  way  of  rising  in  a  cabaret — and, 
settling  the  reckoning  with  the  waiter,  stag- 
gers into  the  street.  For  myself  I  never  do  a 
reckoning  with  the  waiter.  I  just  pay  the  bill 
as  he  adds  it,  and  take  a  chance  on  it. 

As  The  Man  staggers  into  the  "night  air," 
the  writer  has  time — just  a  little  time,  for  the 
modern  reader  is  impatient — to  explain  who 
he  is  and  why  he  staggers.  He  is  rich.  That 
goes  without  saying.  All  clean-limbed  men 
with  straight  legs  are  rich.  He  owns  copper 
238 


Follies  in  Fiction 


mines  in  Montana.  All  well-tubbed  million- 
aires do.  But  he  has  left  them,  left  everything, 
because  of  the  Other  Man's  Wife.  It  was  that 
or  madness — or  worse.  He  had  told  himself 
so  a  thousand  times.  (This  little  touch  about 
*'worse"  is  used  in  all  the  stories.  I  don't 
just  understand  what  the  "worse"  means.  But 
snoopopathic  readers  reach  for  it  with  great 
readiness.)  So  The  Man  had  come  to  New 
York  (the  only  place  where  stories  are  allowed 
to  be  laid)  under  an  assumed  name,  to  forget, 
to  drive  her  from  his  mind.  He  had  plunged 
into  the  mad  round  of — I  never  could  find  it 
myself,  but  it  must  be  there,  and  as  they  all 
plunge  into  it,  it  must  be  as  full  of  them  as  a 
sheet  of  Tanglefoot  is  of  flies. 

"As  The  Man  walked  home  to  his  hotel,  the 
cool,  night  air  steadied  him,  but  his  brain  is 
still  filled  with  the  fumes  of  the  wine  he  had 
drunk."  Notice  these  "fumes."  It  must  be 
great  to  float  round  with  them  in  one's  brain, 
where  they  apparently  lodge.  I  have  often 
tried  to  find  them,  but  I  never  can.  Again  and 
again  I  have  said,  "Waiter,  bring  me  a  Scotch 
239 


Further  Foolishness 


whiskey  and  soda  with  fumes."  But  I  can  never 
get  them. 

Thus  goes  The  Man  to  his  hotel.  Now  it 
is  in  a  room  in  this  same  hotel  that  The  Woman 
is  sitting,  and  in  which  she  has  crumpled  up  the 
telegram.  It  is  to  this  hotel  that  she  has  come 
when  she  left  her  husband,  a  week  ago.  The 
readers  know,  without  even  being  told,  that 
she  left  him  "to  work  out  her  own  salvation" 
— driven,  by  his  cold  brutality,  beyond  the 
breaking  point.  And  there  is  laid  upon  her 
soul,  as  she  sits  there  with  clenched  hands,  the 
dust  and  ashes  of  a  broken  marriage  and  a  love- 
less life,  and  the  knowledge,  too  late,  of  all 
that  might  have  been. 

And  it  is  to  this  hotel  that  The  Woman's 
Husband  is  following  her. 

But  The  Man  does  not  know  that  she  is 
in  the  hotel;  nor  that  she  has  left  her  husband; 
it  is  only  accident  that  brings  them  together. 
And  it  is  only  by  accident  that  he  has  come  into 
her  room,  at  night,  and  stands  there — rooted 
to  the  threshold. 

Now  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  real  life,  there  is 
240 


Follies  in  Fiction 


nothing  at  all  in  the  simple  fact  of  walking 
into  the  wrong  room  of  a  hotel  by  accident. 
You  merely  apologise  and  go  out.  I  had  this 
experience  myself  only  a  few  days  ago.  I 
walked  right  into  a  lady's  room — next  door 
to  my  own.  But  I  simply  said,  "Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  thought  this  was  No.  343." 

"No,"  she  said,  "this  is  341." 

She  did  not  rise  and  "confront"  me,  as  they 
always  do  in  the  snoopopathic  stories.  Neither 
did  her  eyes  flash,  nor  her  gown  cling  to  her  as 
she  rose.  Nor  was  her  gown  made  of  "rich 
old  stuff."  No,  she  merely  went  on  reading 
her  newspaper. 

"I  must  apologise,"  I  said.  "I  am  a  little 
short-sighted,  and  very  often  a  one  and  a  three 
look  so  alike  that  I  can't  tell  them  apart.  I'm 
afraid " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  lady.  "Good  eve- 
ning." 

"You  see,"  I  added,  "this  room  and  my  own 
being  so  alike,  and  mine  being  343  and  this 
being  341,  I  walked  in  before  I  realised  that 
241 


Further  Foolishness 


instead  of  walking  into  343  I  was  walking  into 

341." 

She  bowed  in  silence,  without  speaking,  and 
I  felt  that  it  was  now  the  part  of  exquisite  tact 
to  retire  quietly  without  further  explanation, 
or  at  least  with  only  a  few  murmured  words 
about  the  possibility  of  to-morrow  being  even 
colder  than  to-day.  I  did  so,  and  the  affair 
ended  with  complete  savoir  faire  on  both  sides. 

But  the  Snoopopaths,  Man  and  Woman, 
can't  do  this  sort  of  thing,  or,  at  any  rate,  the 
snoopopathic  writer  won't  let  them.  The  op- 
portunity is  too  good  to  miss.  As  soon  as  The 
Man  comes  into  The  Woman's  room — before 
he  knows  who  she  is,  for  she  has  her  back  to 
him — he  gets  into  a  condition  dear  to  all 
snoopopathic  readers. 

His  veins  simply  "surged."  His  brain  beat 
against  his  temples  in  mad  pulsation.  His 
breath  "came  and  went  in  quick,  short  pants." 
(This  last  might  perhaps  be  done  by  one  of 
the  hotel  bellboys,  but  otherwise  it  is  hard 
to  imagine.) 

And  The  Woman — "Noiseless  as  his  step 
242 


Follies  in  Fiction 


had  been  she  seemed  to  sense  his  presence.     A 

wave   seemed   to   sweep   over   her "      She 

turned  and  rose  "fronting  him  full."  This 
doesn't  mean  that  he  was  full  when  she  front- 
ed him.  Her  gown — but  we  know  about  that 
already.  "It  was  a  coward's  trick,"  she 
panted. 

Now  If  The  Man  had  had  the  kind  of  savoir 
faire  that  I  have,  he  would  have  said:  "Oh, 
pardon  me!  I  see  this  room  is  341.  My  own 
room  is  343,  and  to  me  a  one  and  a  three  often 
look  so  alike  that  I  seem  to  have  walked  into 
341  while  looking  for  343."  And  he  could 
have  explained  in  two  words  that  he  had  no 
idea  that  she  was  in  New  York,  was  not  fol- 
lowing her,  and  not  proposing  to  interfere 
with  her  in  any  way.  And  she  would  have 
explained  also  in  two  sentences  why  and  how 
she  came  to  be  there.  But  this  wouldn't  do. 
Instead  of  it.  The  Man  and  The  Woman  go 
through  the  grand  snoopopathic  scene  which 
is  so  intense  that  it  needs  what  is  really  a  new 
kind  of  language  to  convey  it. 

"Helene,"  he  croaked,  reaching  out  his  arms 
243 


Further  Foolishness 


— his  voice  tensed  with  the  infinity  of  his  de- 
sire. 

"Back,"  she  iced.  And  then,  "Why  have 
you  come  here?"  she  hoarsed.  "What  busi- 
ness have  you  here?" 

"None,"  he  glooped,  "none.  I  have  no  busi- 
ness."    They  stood  sensing  one  another. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  Philadelphia,"  she 
said — her  gown  clinging  to  every  fibre  of  her 
as  she  spoke. 

"I  was,"  he  wheezed. 

"And  you  left  it?"  she  sharped,  her  voice 
tense. 

"I  left  it,"  he  said,  his  voice  glumping  as  he 
spoke.  "Need  I  tell  you  why?"  He  had  come 
nearer  to  her.  She  could  hear  his  pants  as  he 
moved. 

"No,  no,"  she  gurgled.  "You  left  it.  It 
is  enough.  I  can  understand" — she  looked 
bravely  up  at  him — "I  can  understand  any  man 
leaving  it."  Then  as  he  moved  still  nearer  her, 
there  was  the  sound  of  a  sudden  swift  step  in 
the  corridor.  The  door  opened  and  there  stood 
244 


Follies  in  Fiction 


before  them — The  Other  Man,  the  Husband 
of  The  Woman — Edward  Dangerfield. 

This,  of  course,  is  the  grand  snoopopathic 
climax,  when  the  author  gets  all  three  of  them 
— The  Man,  The  Woman,  and  The  Woman's 
Husband — in  a  hotel  room  at  night.  But  no- 
tice what  happens. 

He  stood  in  the  opening  of  the  doorway 
looking  at  them,  a  slight  smile  upon  his  lips. 
"Well?"  he  said.  Then  he  entered  the  room 
and  stood  for  a  moment  quietly  looking  into 
The  Man's  face. 

"So,"  he  said,  "it  was  you."  He  walked  into 
the  room  and  laid  the  light  coat  that  he  had 
been  carrying  over  his  arm  upon  the  table.  He 
drew  a  cigar  case  from  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"Try  one  of  these  Havanas,"  he  said. 

Observe  the  calm  of  it.  This  is  what  the 
snoopopath  loves — no  rage,  no  blustering — 
calmness,  cynicism.  He  walked  over  towards 
the  mantel-piece  and  laid  his  hat  upon  it.  He 
set  his  boot  upon  the  fender. 

"It  was  cold  this  evening,"  he  said.  He 
245 


Further  Foolishness 


walked  over  to  the  window  and  gazed  a  mo- 
ment Into  the  dark. 

"This  is  a  nice  hotel,"  he  said.  (This  scene 
is  what  the  author  and  the  reader  love;  they 
hate  to  let  it  go.  TheyM  willingly  keep  the 
man  walking  up  and  down  for  hours  saying 
"Well!") 

The  Man  raised  his  head!  "Yes,  it's  a  good 
hotel,"  he  said.  Then  he  let  his  head  fall 
again. 

This  kind  of  thing  goes  on  until,  if  possible, 
the  reader  is  persuaded  Into  thinking  that  there 
is  nothing  going  to  happen.     Then : — 

"He  turned  to  The  Woman.  'Go  In  there,' 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  bedroom  door.  Me- 
chanically she  obeyed."  This,  by  the  way,  is 
the  first  Intimation  that  the  reader  has  that  the 
room  In  which  they  were  sitting  was  not  a  bed- 
room. The  two  men  were  alone.  Dangerfield 
walked  over  to  the  chair  where  he  had  thrown 
his  coat. 

"I  bought  this  coat  In  St.  Louis  last  fall," 
he  said.  His  voice  was  quiet,  even  passionless. 
Then  from  the  pocket  of  the  coat  he  took  a 
246 


Follies  in  Fiction 


revolver  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Marsden 
watched  him  without  a  word. 

"Do  you  see  this  pistol?"  said  Dangerfield. 

Marsden  raised  his  head  a  moment  and  let 
it  sink. 

Of  course  the  ignorant  reader  keeps  wonder- 
ing why  he  doesn't  explain.  But  how  can  he? 
What  is  there  to  say?  He  has  been  found  out 
of  his  own  room  at  night.  The  penalty  for 
this  in  all  the  snoopopathic  stories  is  death.  It 
is  understood  that  in  all  the  New  York  hotels 
the  night  porters  shoot  a  certain  number  of 
men  in  the  corridors  every  night. 

"When  we  married,"  said  Dangerfield,  glanc- 
ing at  the  closed  door  as  he  spoke.  "I  bought 
this  and  the  mate  to  it — for  her — just  the  same, 
with  the  monogram  on  the  butt — see !  And  I 
said  to  her,  'If  things  ever  go  wrong  between 
you  and  me,  there  is  always  this  way  out.'  " 

He  lifted  the  pistol  from  the  table,  examin- 
ing Its  mechanism.  He  rose  and  walked  across 
the  room  till  he  stood  with  his  back  against 
the  door,  the  pistol  in  his  hand,  its  barrel  point- 
ing straight  at  Marsden's  heart.  Marsden 
247 


Further  Foolishness 


never  moved.  Then  as  the  two  men  faced 
one  another  thus,  looking  into  one  another's 
eyes,  their  ears  caught  a  sound  from  behind 
the  closed  door  of  the  inner  room — a  sharp, 
hard,  metallic  sound  as  if  some  one  in  the  room 
within  had  raised  the  hammer  of  a  pistol — a 
jewelled  pistol  like  the  one  in  Dangerfield's 
hand. 

And  then — 

A  loud  report,  and  with  a  cry,  the  cry  of  a 
woman,  one  shrill  despairing  cry 

Or  no,  hang  it — I  can't  consent  to  end  up 
a  story  in  that  fashion,  with  the  dead  woman 
prone  across  the  bed,  the  smoking  pistol,  with 
a  jewel  on  the  hilt,  still  clasped  in  her  hand — 
the  red  blood  welling  over  the  white  laces  of 
her  gown — while  the  two  men  gaze  down  upon 
her  cold  face  with  horror  in  their  eyes.  Not 
a  bit.     Let's  end  it  like  this: — 

"A  shrill  despairing  cry, — 'Ed!  Charlie! 
Come  in  here  quick!  Hurry!  The  steam  coil 
has  blown  out  a  plug !  You  two  boys  quit  talk- 
ing and  come  in  here,  for  Heaven's  sake,  and 
fix  it.'  " 

248 


Follies  in  Fiction 


And,  Indeed,  if  the  reader  will  look  back  he 
will  see  there  is  nothing  in  the  dialogue  to  pre- 
clude it.  He  was  misled,  that's  all.  I  merely 
said  that  Mrs.  Dangerfield  had  left  her  hus- 
band a  few  days  before.  So  she  had — to  do 
some  shopping  In  New  York.  She  thought  it 
mean  of  him  to  follow  her.  And  I  never  said 
that  Mrs.  Dangerfield  had  any  connection  what- 
ever with  The  Woman  with  whom  Marsden 
was  in  love.  Not  at  all.  He  knew  her,  of 
course,  because  he  came  from  Brick  City.  But 
she  had  thought  he  was  In  Philadelphia,  and 
naturally  she  was  surprised  to  see  him  back  in 
New  York.  That's  why  she  exclaimed  "Back !" 
And  as  a  matter  of  plain  fact,  you  can't  pick 
up  a  revolver  without  its  pointing  somewhere. 
No  one  said  he  meant  to  fire  it. 

In  fact,  If  the  reader  will  glance  back  at  the 
dialogue — I  know  he  has  no  time  to,  but  if  he 
does — he  will  see  that,  being  something  of  a 
snoopopath  himself,  he  has  Invented  the  whole 
story. 


249 


JCf^. — Foreign  Fiction  in  Imported 
Instalments:  Serge  the  Super- 
man,   A  Russian  Novel. 

(  Translated,  with  a  hand  pump,  out  of  the  original  Russian.) 

(Special  Editorial  Note,  or,  Fit  of  Con- 
vulsions INTO  Which  an  Editor  Falls  in 
Introducing  This  Sort  of  Story  to  His 
Readers. — fVe  need  offer  no  apology  to  our 
readers  in  presenting  to  them  a  Russian  novel. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  future  in  literature 
lies  with  Russia.  The  names  of  Tolstoi,  of 
Turgansomething,  and  Dostoi-what-is-it  are 
household  words  in  America.  We  may  say  with 
certainty  that  Serge  the  Superman  is  the  most 
distinctly  Russian  thing  produced  in  years.  The 
Russian  view  of  life  is  melancholy  and  fatalistic. 
It  is  dark  with  the  gloom  of  the  great  forests  of 
the  Volga,  and  saddened  with  the  infinite  silence 
of  the  Siberian  plain.  Hence  the  Russian 
250 


Follies  in  Fiction 


speech,  like  the  Russian  thought,  is  direct,  terse 
and  almost  crude  in  its  elemental  power.  All 
this  appears  in  Serge  the  Superman.  It  is  the 
directest,  tersest,  crudest  thing  we  have  ever 
seen.  We  showed  the  manuscript  to  a  friend  of 
ours,  a  critic,  a  man  who  has  a  greater  command 
of  the  language  of  criticism  than  perhaps  any 
two  men  in  New  York  to-day.  He  said  at  once, 
''This  is  big.  It  is  a  big  thing,  done  by  a  big 
man,  a  man  with  big  ideas,  writing  at  his  very 
biggest.  The  whole  thing  has  a  bigness  about  it 
that  is, — "  and  here  he  paused  and  thought  a 
moment  and  added, — "big."  After  this  he  sat 
back  in  his  chair  and  said,  "big,  big,  big,"  till 
we  left  him.  IFe  next  showed  the  story  to  an 
English  critic  and  he  said  without  hesitation, 
or  with  very  little,  "This  is  really  not  half 
bad."  Last  of  all  we  read  the  story  ourselves 
and  we  rose  after  its  perusal, — itself  not  an 
easy  thing  to  do, — and  said,  "Wonderful  but 
terrible."  All  through  our  {free)  lunch  that 
day  we  shuddered.) 


251 


Further  Foolishness 


CHAPTER  I 

AS  a  child  Serge  lived  with  his  father — 
Ivan   Ivanovitch — and   his   mother — 
Katrina  Katerinavitch.     In  the  house, 
too,  were  Nitska,  the  serving  maid, 
Itch,  the  serving  man,  and  Yump,  the  cook,  his 
wife. 

The  house  stood  on  the  borders  of  a  Rus- 
sian town.  It  was  in  the  heart  of  Russia.  All 
about  it  was  the  great  plain  with  the  river  run- 
ning between  low  banks  and  over  it  the  dull 
sky. 

Across  the  plain  ran  the  post  road,  naked 
and  bare.  In  the  distance  one  could  see  a  mou- 
jik  driving  a  three-horse  tarantula,  or  perhaps 
Swill,  the  swine-herd,  herding  the  swine.  Far 
away  the  road  dipped  over  the  horizon  and 
was  lost. 

"Where  does  it  go  to?"  asked  Serge.  But 
no  one  could  tell  him. 

In  the  winter  there  came  the  great  snows  and 
the  river  was  frozen  and  Serge  could  walk 
on  it. 

252 


Follies  in  Fiction 


On  such  days  Yob,  the  postman,  would  come 
to  the  door,  stamping  his  feet  with  the  cold  as 
he  gave  the  letters  to  Itch. 

"It  is  a  cold  day,"  Yob  would  say. 

"It  is  God's  will,"  said  Itch.  Then  he  would 
fetch  a  glass  of  Kwas  steaming  hot  from  the 
great  stove,  built  of  wood,  that  stood  in  the 
kitchen. 

"Drink,  little  brother,"  he  would  say  to 
Yob,  and  Yob  would  answer,  "Little  Uncle,  I 
drink  your  health,"  and  he  would  go  down  the 
road  again,  stamping  his  feet  with  the  cold. 

Then  later  the  spring  would  come  and  all 
the  plain  was  bright  with  flowers  and  Serge 
could  pick  them.  Then  the  rain  came  and 
Serge  could  catch  it  in  a  cup.  Then  the  sum- 
mer came  and  the  great  heat  and  the  storms 
and  Serge  could  watch  the  lightning. 

"What  is  lightning  for?"  he  would  ask  of 
Yump,  the  cook,  as  she  stood  kneading  the 
mush,  or  dough,  to  make  slab,  or  pancake,  for 
the  morrow.  Yump  shook  her  hwb,  or  head, 
with  a  look  of  perplexity  on  her  big  mugg,  or 
face. 

253 


Further  Foolishness 


"It  is  God's  will,"  she  said. 

Thus  Serge  grew  up  a  thoughtful  child. 

At  times  he  would  say  to  his  mother,  "Ma- 
trinska"  (little  mother),  "why  is  the  sky  blue?" 
And  she  couldn't  tell  him. 

Or  at  times  he  would  say  to  his  father, 
"Boob"  (Russian  for  father),  "what  is  three 
times  six?"     But  his  father  didn't  know. 

Each  year  Serge  grew. 

Life  began  to  perplex  the  boy.  He  couldn't 
understand  it.  No  one  could  tell  him  any- 
thing. 

Sometimes  he  would  talk  with  Itch,  the  serv- 
ing man. 

"Itch,"  he  asked,  "what  is  morality?"  But 
Itch  didn't  know.  In  his  simple  life  he  had 
never  heard  of  it. 

At  times  people  came  to  the  house — Snip, 
the  schoolmaster,  who  could  read  and  write, 
and  Cinch,  the  harness  maker,  who  made  har- 
ness. 

Once  there  came  Popoff,  the  inspector  of 
police,  in  his  blue  coat  with  fur  on  it.  He  stood 
in  front  of  the  fire  writing  down  the  names  of 
254 


Follies  in  Fiction 


all  the  people  in  the  house.  And  when  he  came 
to  Itch,  Serge  noticed  how  Itch  trembled  and 
cowered  before  Popoff,  cringing  as  he  brought 
a  three-legged  stool  and  saying,  "Sit  near  the 
fire,  little  father;  it  is  cold."  Popoff  laughed 
and  said,  "Cold  as  Siberia,  is  it  not,  little  broth- 
er?" Then  he  said,  "Bare  me  your  arm  to 
the  elbow,  and  let  me  see  if  our  mark  is  on 
It  still."  And  Itch  raised  his  sleeve  to  the  elbow 
and  Serge  saw  that  there  was  a  mark  upon  it 
burnt  deep  and  black. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Popoff,  and  he  laughed. 
But  Yump,  the  cook,  beat  the  fire  with  a  stick 
so  that  the  sparks  flew  into  Popoff's  face.  "You 
are  too  near  the  fire,  little  inspector,"  she  said. 
"It  burns." 

All  that  evening  Itch  sat  in  the  corner  of 
the  kitchen,  and  Serge  saw  that  there  were 
tears  on  his  face. 

"Why  does  he  cry?"  asked  Serge. 

"He  has  been  in  Siberia,"  said  Yump  as  she 
poured  water  into  the  great  iron  pot  to  make 
soup  for  the  week  after  the  next. 

Serge  grew  more  thoughtful  each  year. 
255 


Further  Foolishness 


All  sorts  of  things,  occurrences  of  daily  life, 
set  him  thinking.  One  day  he  saw  some  peas- 
ants drowning  a  tax  collector  in  the  river.  It 
made  a  deep  impression  on  him.  He  couldn't 
understand  it.  There  seemed  something  wrong 
about  it. 

"Why  did  they  drown  him?"  he  asked  of 
Yump,  the  cook. 

"He  was  collecting  taxes,"  said  Yump,  and 
she  threw  a  handful  of  cups  into  the  cupboard. 

Then  one  day  there  was  great  excitement  in 
the  town,  and  men  in  uniform  went  to  and  fro 
and  all  the  people  stood  at  the  doors  talking. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  Serge. 

"It  is  Popoff,  inspector  of  police,"  answered 
Itch.     "They  have  found  him  beside  the  river." 

"Is  he  dead?"  questioned  Serge. 

Itch  pointed  reverently  to  the  ground, — "He 
is  there !"  he  said. 

All  that  day  Serge  asked  questions.  But  no 
one  would  tell  him  anything.  "Popoff  is  dead," 
they  said.  "They  have  found  him  beside  the 
river  with  his  ribs  driven  in  on  his  heart." 

"Why  did  they  kill  him?"  asked  Serge. 
256 


Follies  in  Fiction 


But  no  one  would  say. 

So  after  this  Serge  was  more  perplexed  than 
ever. 

Every  one  noticed  how  thoughtful  Serge  was. 

"He  is  a  wise  boy,"  they  said.  "Some  day  he 
will  be  a  learned  man.    He  will  read  and  write." 

"Defend  us!"  exclaimed  Itch.  "It  is  a  dan- 
gerous thing." 

One  day  Liddoff,  the  priest,  came  to  the 
house  with  a  great  roll  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Serge. 

"It  is  the  alphabet,"  said  Liddoff. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  Serge  with  eagerness. 

"Not  all  of  it,"  said  Liddoff,  gently.  "Here 
is  part  of  it,"  and  he  tore  off  a  piece  and  gave 
it  to  the  boy. 

"Defend  us !"  said  Yump,  the  cook.  "It  is 
not  a  wise  thing,"  and  she  shook  her  head  as 
she  put  a  new  lump  of  clay  in  the  wooden  stove 
to  make  it  burn  more  brightly. 

Then  everybody  knew  that  Serge  was  learn- 
ing the  alphabet,  and  that  when  he  had  learned 
it  he  was  to  go  to  Moscow,  to  the  Teknik,  and 
learn  what  else  there  was. 
257 


Further  Foolishness 


So  the  days  passed  and  the  months.  Pres- 
ently Ivan  Ivanovitch  said,  "Now  he  is  ready," 
and  he  took  down  a  bag  of  rubles  that  was  con- 
cealed on  a  shelf  beside  the  wooden  stove  in 
the  kitchen  and  counted  them  out  after  the  Rus- 
sian fashion,  "Ten,  ten,  and  yet  ten,  and  still 
ten,  and  ten,"  till  he  could  count  no  further. 

"Protect  us  !"  said  Yump.  "Now  he  is  rich  !" 
and  she  poured  oil  and  fat  mixed  with  sand  into 
the  bread  and  beat  it  with  a  stick. 

"He  must  get  ready,"  they  said.  "He  must 
buy  clothes.  Soon  he  will  go  to  Moscow  to  the 
Teknik  and  become  a  wise  man." 

Now  it  so  happened  that  there  came  one  day 
to  the  door  a  drosky,  or  one-horse  carriage, 
and  in  it  was  a  man  and  beside  him  was  a  girl. 
The  man  stopped  to  ask  the  way  from  Itch, 
who  pointed  down  the  post  road  over  the  plain. 
But  his  hand  trembled  and  his  knees  shook  as 
he  showed  the  way.  For  the  eyes  of  the  man 
who  asked  the  way  were  dark  with  hate  and 
cruel  with  power.  And  he  wore  a  uniform  and 
there  was  brass  upon  his  cap.  But  Serge  looked 
only  at  the  girl.  And  there  was  no  hate  in  her 
258 


Follies  in  Fiction 


eyes,  but  only  a  great  burning,  and  a  look  that 
went  far  beyond  the  plain,  Serge  knew  not 
where.  And  as  Serge  looked,  the  girl  turned 
her  face  and  their  eyes  met,  and  he  knew  that 
he  would  never  forget  her.  And  he  saw  in  her 
face  that  she  would  never  forget  him.  For 
that  is  love. 

"Who  Is  that?"  he  asked,  as  he  went  back 
again  with  Itch  into  the  house. 

"It  is  Kwartz,  chief  of  police,"  said  Itch, 
and  his  knees  still  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"Where  is  he  taking  her?"  said  Serge. 

"To  Moscow,  to  the  prison,"  answered  Itch. 
"There  they  will  hang  her  and  she  will  die." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Serge.  "What  has  she 
done?"  and  as  he  spoke  he  could  still  see  the 
girl's  face,  and  the  look  upon  it,  and  a  great  fire 
went  sweeping  through  his  veins. 

^'She  Is  Olga  Ileyitch,"  answered  Itch.  "She 
made  the  bomb  that  killed  Popoff,  the  inspec- 
tor, and  now  they  will  hang  her  and  she  will 
die." 

"Defend    us!"    murmured    Yump,    as    she 
heaped  more  clay  upon  the  stove. 
259 


Further  Foolishness 


CHAPTER  II 

Serge  went  to  Moscow.  He  entered  the 
Teknik.  He  became  a  student.  He  learned 
geography  from  Stoj,  the  professor,  astrogra- 
phy  from  Fudj,  the  assistant,  together  with 
giliodesy,  orgastrophy  and  other  native  Russian 

studies. 

All  day  he  worked.  His  industry  was  un- 
flagging. His  instructors  were  enthusiastic. 
"If  he  goes  on  like  this,"  they  said,  "he  will 
some  day  know  something." 

"It  is  marvellous,"  said  one;  "If  he  continues 
thus,  he  will  be  a  professor." 

"He  Is  too  young,"  said  Stoj,  shaking  his 
head;  "he  has  too  much  hair." 

"He  sees  too  well,"  said  Fudj.  "Let  him 
wait  till  his  eyes  are  weaker." 

But  all  day  as  Serge  worked  he  thought. 
And  his  thoughts  were  of  Olga  Ileyltch,  the  girl 
that  he  had  seen  with  Kwartz,  inspector  of 
police.  He  wondered  why  she  had  killed  Pop- 
off,  the  inspector.  He  wondered  if  she  was 
dead.  There  seemed  no  justice  in  It. 
260 


Follies  in  Fiction 


One  day  he  questioned  his  professor. 

"Is  the  law  just?"  he  said.  "Is  it  right  to 
kill?" 

But  Stoj  shook  his  head,  and  would  not  an- 
swer. 

"Let  us  go  on  with  our  orgastrophy,"  he 
said.  And  he  trembled  so  that  the  chalk  shook 
in  his  hand. 

So  Serge  questioned  no  further,  but  he 
thought  more  deeply  still.  All  the  way  from 
the  Teknik  to  the  house  where  he  lodged  he 
was  thinking.  As  he  climbed  the  stair  to  his 
attic  room  he  was  still  thinking. 

The  house  in  which  Serge  lived  was  the  house 
of  Madame  Vasselitch.  It  was  a  tall  dark 
house  in  a  sombre  street.  There  were  no  trees 
upon  the  street  and  no  children  played  there. 
And  opposite  to  the  house  of  Madame  Vas- 
selitch was  a  building  of  stone,  with  windows 
barred,  that  was  always  silent.  In  it  were  no 
lights  and  no  one  went  in  or  out. 

"What  is  it?"  Serge  asked. 
"It  is   the   house   of   the   dead,"   answered 
261 


Further  Foolishness 


Madame  Vasselitch,  and  she  shook  her  head 
and  would  say  no  more. 

The  husband  of  Madame  Vasselitch  was 
dead.  No  one  spoke  of  him.  In  the  house  were 
only  students.  Most  of  them  were  wild  fellows, 
as  students  are.  At  night  they  would  sit  about 
the  table  in  the  great  room  drinking  Kwas  made 
from  sawdust  fermented  in  syrup,  or  golgol, 
the  Russian  absinthe,  made  by  dipping  a  goose- 
berry in  a  bucket  of  soda  water.  Then  they 
would  play  cards,  laying  matches  on  the  table 
and  betting,  "Ten,  ten,  and  yet  ten,"  till  all  the 
matches  were  gone.  Then  they  would  say, 
"There  are  no  more  matches;  let  us  dance,"  and 
they  would  dance  upon  the  floor,  till  Madame 
Vasselitch  would  come  to  the  room,  a  candle  in 
her  hand,  and  say,  "Little  brothers,  it  is  ten 
o'clock.  Go  to  bed."  Then  they  went  to  bed. 
They  were  wild  fellows,  as  all  students  are. 

But  there  were  two  students  in  the  house  of 
Madame  Vasselitch  who  were  not  wild.  They 
were  brothers.  They  lived  in  a  long  room  in 
the  basement.  It  was  so  low  that  it  was  below 
the  street. 

262 


Follies  in  Fiction 


The  brothers  were  pale,  with  long  hair. 
They  had  deep-set  eyes.  They  had  but  little 
money.  Madame  Vasselitch  gave  them  food. 
"Eat,  little  sons,"  she  would  say.  "You  must 
not  die." 

The  brothers  worked  all  day.  They  were 
real  students.  One  brother  was  Halfoff.  He 
was  taller  than  the  other  and  stronger.  The 
other  brother  was  Kwitoff.  He  was  not  so 
tall  as  Halfoff  and  not  so  strong. 

One  day  Serge  went  to  the  room  of  the  broth- 
ers. The  brothers  were  at  work.  Halfoff  sat 
at  a  table.     There  was  a  book  in  front  of  him. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Serge. 

"It  is  solid  geometry,"  said  Halfoff,  and 
there  was  a  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"Why  do  you  study  it?"  said  Serge. 

"To  free  Russia,"  said  Halfoff. 

"And  what  book  have  you?"  said  Serge  to 
Kwitoff. 

"Hamblin  Smith's  Elementary  Trigonom- 
etry,'' said  Kwitoff,  and  he  quivered  like  a  leaf. 

"What  does  it  teach?"  asked  Serge. 

"Freedom!"  said  Kwitoff. 
263 


Further  Foolishness 


The  two  brothers  looked  at  one  another. 

"Shall  we  tell  him  everything?"  said  Half- 
off. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Kwitoff.  "Let  him  learn 
first.     Later  he  shall  know." 

After  that  Serge  often  came  to  the  room  of 
the  two  brothers. 

The  two  brothers  gave  him  books.  "Read 
them,"  they  said. 

"What  are  they?"  asked  Serge. 

"They  are  in  English,"  said  Kwitoff.  "They 
are  forbidden  books.  They  are  not  allowed  in 
Russia.     But  in  them  is  truth  and  freedom." 

"Give  me  one,"  said  Serge. 

"Take  this,"  said  Kwitoff.  "Carry  It  under 
your  cloak.     Let  no  one  see  it." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Serge,  trembling  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"It  is  Caldwell's  Pragmatism,^'  said  the 
brothers. 

"Is  it  forbidden?"  asked  Serge. 

The  brothers  looked  at  him. 

"It  is  death  to  read  it,"  they  said. 

After  that  Serge  came  each  day  and  got 
264 


Follies  in  Fiction 


books  from  Halfoff  and  Kwltoff.  At  night  he 
read  them.  They  fired  his  brain.  All  of  them 
were  forbidden  books.  No  one  in  Russia  might 
read  them.  Serge  read  Hamblin  Smith's  Al- 
gebra. He  read  it  all  through  from  cover  to 
cover,  feverishly.  He  read  Murray's  Calculus. 
It  set  his  brain  on  fire.  "Can  this  be  true?"  he 
asked. 

The  books  opened  a  new  world  to  Serge. 

The  brothers  often  watched  him  as  he  read. 

"Shall  we  tell  him  everything?"  said  Halfoff. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Kwitoff;  "he  is  not  ready." 

One  night  Serge  went  to  the  room  of  the  two 
brothers.  They  were  not  working  at  their 
books.  Littered  about  the  room  were  black- 
smith's tools  and  wires,  and  pieces  of  metal  ly- 
ing on  the  floor.  There  was  a  crucible  and 
underneath  it  a  blue  fire  that  burned  fiercely. 
Beside  it  the  brothers  worked.  Serge  could  see 
their  faces  In  the  light  of  the  flame. 

"Shall  we  tell  him  now?"  said  Kwitoff.  The 
other  brother  nodded. 

"Tell  him  now,"  he  said. 

"Little  brother,"  said  Kwitoff,  and  he  rose 
265 


Further  Foolishness 


from  beside  the  flame  and  stood  erect,  for  he 
was  tall,  "will  you  give  your  life?" 

"What  for?"  asked  Serge. 

The  brothers  shook  their  heads. 

"We  cannot  tell  you  that,"  they  said.  "That 
would  be  too  much.    Will  you  join  us?" 

"In  what?"  asked  Serge. 

"We  must  not  say,"  said  the  brothers.  "We 
can  only  ask  are  you  willing  to  help  our  enter- 
prise with  all  your  power  and  with  your  life  if 
need  be?" 

"What  is  your  enterprise?"  asked  Serge. 

"We  must  not  divulge  it,"  they  said.  "Only 
this:  Will  you  give  your  life  to  save  another 
life,  to  save  Russia?" 

Serge  paused.  He  thought  of  Olga  Ileyitch. 
Only  to  save  her  life  would  he  have  given  his. 

"I  cannot,"  he  answered. 

"Good  night,  little  brother,"  said  Kwitoff 
gently,  and  he  turned  back  to  his  work. 

Thus  the  months  passed. 

Serge  studied  without  ceasing.  "If  there  is 
truth,"  he  thought,  "I  shall  find  it."  All  the 
time  he  thought  of  Olga  Ileyitch.  His  face 
266 


Follies  in  Fiction 


grew  pale.   "Justice,  justice,"  he  thought,  "what 
is  justice  and  truth?" 

CHAPTER  III 

Now  when  Serge  had  been  six  months  in  the 
house  of  Madame  Vassehtch,  Ivan  Ivanovitch, 
his  father,  sent  Itch,  the  serv^ing  man,  and 
Yump,  the  cook,  his  wife,  to  Moscow  to  see  how 
Serge  fared.  And  Ivan  first  counted  out  rubles 
into  a  bag,  "ten,  and  ten  and  still  ten,"  till  Itch 
said,  "It  is  enough.    I  will  carry  that." 

Then  they  made  ready  to  go.  Itch  took  a 
duck  from  the  pond  and  put  a  fish  in  his  pocket, 
together  with  a  fragrant  cheese  and  a  bundle 
of  sweet  garlic.  And  Yump  took  oil  and  dough 
and  mixed  it  with  tar  and  beat  it  with  an  iron 
bar  so  as  to  shape  it  into  a  pudding. 

So  they  went  forth  on  foot,  walking  till  they 
came  to  Moscow. 

"It  is  a  large  place,"  said  Itch,  and  he  looked 
about  him  at  the  lights  and  the  people. 

"Defend  us,"  said  Yump.  "It  is  no  place 
for  a  woman." 

267 


Further  Foolishness 


"Fear  nothing,"  said  Itch,  looking  at  her. 

So  they  went  on,  looking  for  the  house  of 
Madame  Vasselitch. 

"How  bright  the  lights  are!"  said  Itch,  and 
he  stood  still  and  looked  about  him.  Then  he 
pointed  at  a  burleski,  or  theatre.  "Let  us  go  in 
there  and  rest,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Yump,  "let  us  hurry  on." 

"You  are  tired,"  said  Itch.  "Give  me  the 
pudding  and  hurry  forward,  so  that  you  may 
sleep.  I  will  come  later,  bringing  the  pudding 
and  the  fish." 

"I  am  not  tired,"  said  Yump. 

So  they  came  at  last  to  the  house  of  Madame 
Vasselitch.  And  when  they  saw  Serge  they 
said,  "How  tall  he  is  and  how  well  grown!" 
But  they  thought,  "He  is  pale.  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
must  know." 

And  Itch  said,  "Here  are  the  rubles  sent  by 
Ivan  Ivanovitch.  Count  them,  little  son,  and 
see  that  they  are  right." 

"How  many  should  there  be?"  said  Serge. 

"I  know  not,"  said  Itch;  "you  must  count 
them  and  see." 

268 


Follies  in  Fiction 


Then  Yump  said,  "Here  is  a  pudding,  little 
son,  and  a  fish,  and  a  duck,  and  a  cheese  and 
garlic." 

So  that  night  Itch  and  Yump  stayed  in  the 
house  of  Madame  Vasselitch. 

"You  are  tired,"  said  Itch;  "you  must 
sleep." 

"I  am  not  tired,"  said  Yump.  "It  is  only 
that  my  head  aches  and  my  face  burns  from  the 
wind  and  the  sun." 

"I  will  go  forth,"  said  Itch,  "and  find  a 
fisski,  or  drug-store,  and  get  something  for 
your  face." 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  said  Yump.  And  Itch 
stayed. 

Meantime  Serge  had  gone  up  stairs  with  the 
fish  and  the  duck  and  the  cheese  and  the  pud- 
ding. As  he  went  up  he  thought,  "It  is  selfish 
to  eat  alone.  I  will  give  part  of  the  fish  to  the 
others."  And  when  he  got  a  little  further  up 
the  steps  he  thought,  "I  will  give  them  all  of 
the  fish."  And  when  he  got  higher  still  he 
thought,  "They  shall  have  everything." 

Then  he  opened  the  door  and  came  into  the 
269 


Further  Foolishness 


big  room  where  the  students  were  playing  with 
matches  at  the  big  table  and  drinking  golgol 
out  of  cups.  "Here  is  food,  brothers,"  he  said. 
"Take  it.     I  need  none." 

The  students  took  the  food  and  they  cried, 
"Rah,  Rah,"  and  beat  the  fish  against  the  table. 
But  the  pudding  they  would  not  take.  "We 
have  no  axe,"  they  said.     "Keep  it." 

Then  they  poured  out  golgol  for  Serge  and 
said,  "Drink  it." 

But  Serge  would  not. 

"I  must  work,"  he  said,  and  all  the  students 
laughed.  "He  wants  to  work!"  they  cried. 
"Rah,  Rah." 

But  Serge  went  up  to  his  room  and  lighted 
his  taper,  made  of  string  dipped  in  fat,  and  set 
himself  to  study. 

"I  must  work,"  he  repeated. 

So  Serge  sat  at  his  books.  It  got  later  and 
the  house  grew  still.  The  noise  of  the  students 
below  ceased  and  then  everything  was  quiet. 

Serge  sat  working  through  the  night.     Then 
presently  it  grew  morning  and  the  dark  changed 
to  twilight  and  Serge  could  see  from  his  window 
270 


Follies  in  Fiction 


the  great  building  with  the  barred  windows 
across  the  street  standing  out  in  the  grey  mist 
of  the  morning. 

Serge  had  often  studied  thus  through  the 
night  and  when  it  was  morning  he  would  say, 
"It  is  morning,"  and  would  go  down  and  help 
Madame  Vasselitch  unbar  the  iron  shutters  and 
unchain  the  door,  and  remove  the  bolts  from 
the  window  casement. 

But  on  this  morning  as  Serge  looked  from 
his  window  his  eyes  saw  a  figure  behind  the 
barred  window  opposite  to  him.  It  was  the 
figure  of  a  girl  and  she  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor  and  she  was  in  prayer,  for  Serge  could 
see  that  her  hands  were  before  her  face.  And 
as  he  looked  all  his  blood  ran  warm  to  his  head, 
and  his  limbs  trembled  even  though  he  could 
not  see  the  girl's  face.  Then  the  girl  rose  from 
her  knees  and  turned  her  face  towards  the  bars, 
and  Serge  knew  that  it  was  Olga  Ileyitch  and 
that  she  had  seen  and  known  him. 

Then  he  came  down  the  stairs  and  Madame 
Vasselitch  was  there  undoing  the  shutters  and 
removing  the  nails  from  the  window  casing. 
271 


Further  Foolishness 


"What  have  you  seen,  little  son?"  she  asked, 
and  her  voice  was  gentle,  for  the  face  of  Serge 
was  pale  and  his  eyes  were  wide. 

But  Serge  did  not  answer  the  question, 

"What  Is  that  house?"  he  said;  "the  great 
building  with  the  bars  that  you  call  the  house 
of  the  dead?" 

"Shall  I  tell  you,  little  son,"  said  Madame 
Vasselitch,  and  she  looked  at  him,  still  thinking. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  shall  know." 

"It  is  the  prison  of  the  condemned,  and  from 
there  they  go  forth  only  to  die.  Listen,  little 
son,"  she  went  on,  and  she  gripped  Serge  by 
the  wrist  till  he  could  feel  the  bones  of  her  fin- 
gers against  his  flesh.  "There  lay  my  husband, 
Vangorcd  Vasselitch,  waiting  for  his  death. 
Months  long  he  was  there  behind  the  bars  and 
no  one  might  see  him  or  know  when  he  was  to 
die.  I  took  this  tall  house  that  I  might  at  least 
be  near  him  till  the  end.  But  to  those  who  lie 
there  waiting  for  their  death  It  Is  allowed  once 
and  once  only  that  they  may  look  out  upon  the 
world.  And  this  Is  allowed  to  them  the  day 
before  they  die.  So  I  took  this  house  and 
272 


Follies  in  Fiction 


waited,  and  each  day  I  looked  forth  at  dawn 
across  the  street  and  he  was  not  there.  Then 
at  last  he  came.  I  saw  him  at  the  window  and 
his  face  was  pale  and  set  and  I  could  see  the 
marks  of  the  iron  on  his  wrists  as  he  held  them 
to  the  bars.  But  I  could  see  that  his  spirit  was 
unbroken.  There  was  no  power  in  them  to 
break  that.  Then  he  saw  me  at  the  window, 
and  thus  across  the  narrow  street  we  said  good- 
bye. It  was  only  a  moment.  'Sonia  Vasselitch/ 
he  said,  'do  not  forget,'  and  he  was  gone.  I 
have  not  forgotten.  I  have  lived  on  here  in 
this  dark  house  and  I  have  not  forgotten.  My 
sons — yes,  little  brother,  my  sons,  I  say — have 
not  forgotten.  Now  tell  me,  Sergius  Ivano- 
vitch,  what  you  have  seen." 

"I  have  seen  the  woman  that  I  love,"  said 
Serge,  "kneeling  behind  the  bars  in  prayer.  I 
have  seen  Olga  Ileyitch." 

"Her  name,"  said  Madame  Vasselitch,  and 
there  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  voice 
was  calm,  "her  name  is  Olga  Vasselitch.  She 
is  my  daughter,  and  to-morrow  she  is  to  die." 


273 


Further  Foolishness 


CHAPTER  IV 

Madame  Vasselitch  took  Serge  by  the  hand. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "you  shall  speak  to  my 
sons,"  and  she  led  him  down  the  stairs  towards 
the  room  of  Halfoff  and  Kwitoff. 

"They  are  my  sons,"  she  said.  "Olga  is 
their  sister.    They  are  working  to  save  her." 

Then  she  opened  the  door.  Halfojff  and 
Kwitoff  were  working  as  Serge  had  seen  them 
before,  beside  the  crucible  with  the  blue  flame 
on  their  faces. 

They  had  not  slept. 

Madame  Vasselitch  spoke. 

"He  has  seen  Olga,"  she  said.  "It  is  to- 
day." 

"We  are  too  late,"  said  Halfoff,  and  he 
groaned. 

"Courage,  brother,"  said  Kwitoff.  "She  will 
not  die  till  sunrise.  It  is  twilight  now.  We 
have  still  an  hour.    Let  us  go  to  work." 

Serge  looked  at  the  brothers. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  understand." 
274 


Follies  in  Fiction 


Halfoff  turned  a  moment  from  his  work  and 
looked  at  Serge. 

"Brother,"  he  said,  "will  you  give  your 
life?" 

"Is  it  for  Olga?"  asked  Serge. 

"It  is  for  her." 

"I  give  it  gladly,"  said  Serge. 

"Listen  then,"  said  Halfoff.  "Our  sister  is 
condemned  for  the  killing  of  Popoff,  inspector 
of  police.  She  is  in  the  prison  of  the  con- 
demned, the  house  of  the  dead,  across  the 
street.  Her  cell  is  there  beside  us.  There  is 
only  a  wall  between.     Look " 

Halfoff  as  he  spoke  threw  aside  a  curtain  that 
hung  across  the  end  of  the  room.  Serge  looked 
into  blackness.     It  was  a  tunnel. 

"It  leads  to  the  wall  of  her  cell,"  said  Half- 
off. "We  are  close  against  the  wall  but  we 
cannot  shatter  it.  We  are  working  to  make  a 
bomb.  No  bomb  that  we  can  make  is  hard 
enough.  We  can  only  try  once.  If  it  fails  the 
noise  would  ruin  us.  There  is  no  second  chance. 
We  try  our  bombs  in  the  crucible.  They  crum- 
ble. They  have  no  strength.  We  are  ig- 
275 


Further  Foolishness 


norant.  We  are  only  learning.  We  studied  it 
in  the  books,  the  forbidden  books.  It  took  a 
month  to  learn  to  set  the  wires  to  fire  the  bomb. 
The  tunnel  was  there.  We  did  not  have  to  dig. 
It  was  for  my  father,  Vangorod  Vasselltch.  He 
would  not  let  them  use  It.  He  tapped  a  message 
through  the  wall,  'Keep  It  for  a  greater  need.' 
Now  It  is  his  daughter  that  is  there." 

Halfoff  paused.  He  was  panting  and  his 
chest  heaved.  There  was  perspiration  on  his 
face  and  his  black  hair  was  wet. 

"Courage,  little  brother,"  said  Kwitoff;  "she 
shall  not  die." 

"Listen,"  went  on  Halfoff.  "The  bomb  Is 
made.  It  is  there  beside  the  crucible.  It  has 
power  In  it  to  shatter  the  prison.  But  the  wires 
are  wrong.  They  do  not  work.  There  is  no 
current  in  them.  Something  is  wrong.  We 
cannot  explode  the  bomb." 

"Courage,  courage,"  said  Kwitoff,  and  his 
hands  were  busy  among  the  wires  before  him. 
"I  am  working  still." 

Serge  looked  at  the  brothers. 

"Is  that  the  bomb?"  he  said,  pointing  at  a 
276 


Follies  in  Fiction 


great  ball  of  metal  that  lay  beside  the  crucible. 

"It  Is,"  said  Halfoff. 

"And  the  little  fuse  that  Is  In  the  side  of  It 
fires  it?  And  the  current  from  the  wires  lights 
the  fuse?" 

"Yes,"  said  Halfoff. 

The  two  brothers  looked  at  Serge,  for  there 
was  a  meaning  In  his  voice  and  a  strange  look 
upon  his  face. 

"If  the  bomb  Is  placed  against  the  wall  and 
if  the  fuse  Is  lighted  it  would  explode." 

"Yes,"  said  Halfoff  despairingly,  "but  how? 
The  fuse  Is  Instantaneous.  Without  the  wires 
we  cannot  light  It.     It  would  be  death." 

Serge  took  the  bomb  In  his  hand.  His  face 
was  pale. 

"Let  It  be  so!"  he  said.  "I  will  give  my  life 
for  hers." 

He  lifted  the  bomb  In  his  hand.  "I  will  go 
through  the  tunnel  and  hold  the  bomb  against 
the  wall  and  fire  it,"  he  said.  "Halfoff,  light 
me  the  candle  in  the  flame.  Be  ready  when 
the  wall  falls." 

277 


Further  Foolistiness 


"No,  no,"  said  Halfoff,  grasping  Serge  by 
the  arm, — "you  must  not  die  !" 

"My  brother,"  said  Kwitoff  quietly,  "let 
it  be  as  he  says.     It  is  for  Russia !" 

But  as  Halfoff  turned  to  light  the  candle  in 
the  flame  there  came  a  great  knocking  at  the 
door  above  and  the  sound  of  many  voices  in 
the  street. 

All  paused. 

Madame  Vasselitch  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
lips. 

Then  there  came  the  sound  as  of  grounded 
muskets  on  the  pavement  of  the  street  and  a 
sharp  word  of  command. 

"Soldiers!"  said  Madame  Vasselitch. 

Kwitoff  turned  to  his  brother.  "This  is  the 
end,"  he  said;  "explode  the  bomb  here  and  let 
us  die  together." 

Suddenly  Madame  Vasselitch  gave  a  cry, — 

"It  is  Olga's  voice!"  she  said. 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  a 
glad  voice  was  heard  crying,  "It  is  I,  Olga,  and 
I  am  free !" 

"Free,"  exclaimed  the  brothers. 
278 


Follies  in  Fiction 


All  hastened  up  the  stairs. 

Olga  was  standing  before  them  in  the  hall 
and  beside  her  were  the  officers  of  the  police 
and  In  the  street  were  the  soldiers.  The  stu- 
dents from  above  had  crowded  down  the  stairs 
and  with  them  were  Itch,  the  serving  man,  and 
Yump,  the  cook. 

"I  am  free,"  cried  Olga,  "liberated  by  the 
bounty  of  the  Czar — Russia  has  declared  war 
to  fight  for  the  freedom  of  the  world  and  all 
the  political  prisoners  are  free." 

"Rah,  rah!"  cried  the  students.  "War,  war, 
war!" 

"She  is  set  free,"  said  the  officer  who  stood 
beside  Olga.  "The  charge  of  killing  Popoff 
is  withdrawn.  No  one  will  be  punished  for  it 
now." 

"I  never  killed  him,"  said  Olga,  "I  swear 
it,"  and  she  raised  her  hand. 

"You  never  killed  him!"  exclaimed  Serge 
with  joy  in  his  heart.  "You  did  not  kill  Pop- 
off?     But  who  did?" 

"Defend  us,"  said  Yump,  the  cook.  "Since 
2.79 


Further  Foolishness 


there  is  to  be  no  punishment  for  it,  I  killed  him 
myself." 

"You!"  they  cried. 

*'It  is  so,"  said  Yump.  "I  killed  him  beside 
the  river.     It  was  to  defend  my  honour." 

"It  was  to  defend  her  honour,"  cried  the 
brothers.     "She  has  done  well." 

They  clasped  her  hand. 

"You  destroyed  him  with  a  bomb?"  they 
said. 

"No,"   said  Yump,    "I   sat  down   on  him." 

"Rah,  rah,  rah,"  said  the  students. 

There  was  silence  a  moment.  Then  Kwltoff 
spoke. 

"Friends,"  he  said,  "the  new  day  is  coming. 
The  dawn  is  breaking.  The  moon  is  rising. 
The  stars  are  setting.  It  is  the  birth  of  free- 
dom. See!  we  need  it  not!" — and  as  he  spoke 
he  grasped  in  his  hands  the  bomb  with  its  still 
unlighted  fuse, — "Russia  Is  free.  We  are  all 
brothers  now.  Let  us  cast  it  at  our  enemies. 
Forward!     To  the  frontier!     Live  the  Czar." 


280 


TIMID  THOUGHTS  ON 
TIMELY  TOPICS 


XVI. — Are  the  Rich  Happy ^ 

LET  me  admit  at  the  outset  that  I  write 
this  essay  without  adequate  material. 
I  have  never  known,  I  have  never 
seen,  any  rich  people.  Very  often  I 
have  thought  that  I  had  found  them.  But  it 
turned  out  that  it  was  not  so.  They  were  not 
rich  at  all.  They  were  quite  poor.  They  were 
hard  up.  They  were  pushed  for  money.  They 
didn't  know  where  to  turn  for  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars. 

In  all  the  cases  that  I  have  examined  this 
same  error  has  crept  in.  I  had  often  imagined, 
from  the  fact  of  people  keeping  fifteen  servants, 
that  they  were  rich.  I  had  supposed  that  be- 
cause a  woman  rode  down  town  in  a  limousine 
to  buy  a  fifty-dollar  hat,  she  must  be  well-to-do. 
Not  at  all.  All  these  people  turn  out  on  ex- 
amination to  be  not  rich.  They  are  cramped. 
283 


Further  Foolishness 


They  say  it  themselves.  Pinched,  I  think,  is 
the  word  they  use.  When  I  see  a  glittering 
group  of  eight  people  In  a  stage  box  at  the 
opera,  I  know  that  they  are  all  pinched.  The 
fact  that  they  ride  home  In  a  limousine  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

A  friend  of  mine  who  has  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year  told  me  the  other  day  with  a  sigh 
that  he  found  It  quite  impossible  to  keep  up 
with  the  rich.  On  his  income  he  couldn't  do  it. 
A  family  that  I  know  who  have  twenty  thou- 
sand a  year  have  told  me  the  same  thing.  They 
can't  keep  up  with  the  rich.  There  is  no  use  in 
trying.  A  man  that  I  respect  very  much  who 
has  an  Income  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year 
from  his  law  practice  has  told  me  with  the 
greatest  frankness  that  he  finds  It  absolutely 
Impossible  to  keep  up  with  the  rich.  He  says 
it  Is  better  to  face  the  brutal  fact  of  being  poor. 
He  says  he  can  only  give  me  a  plain  meal — 
what  he  calls  a  home  dinner — It  takes  three 
men  and  two  women  to  serve  It, — and  he  begs 
me  to  put  up  with  It. 

As  far  as  I  remember,  I  have  never  met  Mr. 
284 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

Carnegie.  But  I  know  that  If  I  did  he  would 
tell  me  that  he  found  It  quite  Impossible  to  keep 
up  with  Mr.  Rockefeller.  No  doubt  Mr. 
Rockefeller  has  the  same  feeling. 

On  the  other  hand  there  are,  and  there 
must  be,  rich  people  somewhere.  I  run  across 
traces  of  them  all  the  time.  The  janitor  In 
the  building  where  I  work  has  told  me  that  he 
has  a  rich  cousin  In  England  who  Is  in  the 
South  Western  Railway  and  gets  ten  pounds  a 
week.  He  says  the  railway  wouldn't  know 
what  to  do  without  him.  In  the  same  way  the 
lady  who  washes  at  my  house  has  a  rich  uncle. 
He  lives  In  Winnipeg  and  owns  his  own  house, 
clear,  and  has  two  girls  at  the  high  school. 

But  these  are  only  reported  cases  of  rich- 
ness.    I  cannot  vouch  for  them  myself. 

When  I  speak  therefore  of  rich  people  and 
discuss  whether  they  are  happy,  It  Is  understood 
that  I  am  merely  drawing  my  conclusions  from 
the  people  that  I  see  and  know. 

My  judgment  Is  that  the  rich  undergo  cruel 
trials  and  bitter  tragedies  of  which  the  poor 
know  nothing. 

285 


Further  Foolishness 


In  the  first  place  I  find  that  the  rich  suffer 
perpetually  from  money  troubles.  The  poor 
sit  snugly  at  home  while  sterling  exchange  falls 
ten  points  in  a  day.  Do  they  care?  Not  a  bit. 
An  adverse  balance  of  trade  washes  over  the 
nation  like  a  flood.  Who  have  to  mop  it  up? 
The  rich.  Call  money  rushes  up  to  a  hundred 
per  cent,  and  the  poor  can  still  sit  and  laugh  at 
a  ten  cent  moving  picture  show  and  forget  it. 

But  the  rich  are  troubled  by  money  all  the 
time. 

I  know  a  man,  for  example — his  name  is 
Spugg — whose  private  bank  account  was  over- 
drawn last  month  twenty  thousand  dollars.  He 
told  me  so  at  dinner  at  his  club,  with  apologies 
for  feeling  out  of  sorts.  He  said  it  was  bother- 
ing him.  He  said  he  thought  it  rather  unfair 
of  his  bank  to  have  called  his  attention  to  It. 
I  could  sympathise,  in  a  sort  of  way,  with  his 
feelings.  My  own  account  was  overdrawn 
twenty  cents  at  the  time.  I  knew  that  if  the 
bank  began  calling  in  overdrafts  it  might  be 
my  turn  next.  Spugg  said  he  supposed  he'd 
have  to  telephone  his  secretary  in  the  morning 
286 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

1 
to  sell  some  bonds  and  cover  it.     It  seemed  an 

awful  thing  to  have  to  do.  Poor  people  are 
never  driven  to  this  sort  of  thing.  I  have  known 
cases  of  their  having  to  sell  a  little  furniture, 
perhaps,  but  imagine  having  to  sell  the  very- 
bonds  out  of  one's  desk.  There's  a  bitterness 
about  it  that  the  poor  can  never  know. 

With  this  same  man,  Mr.  Spugg,  I  have  often 
talked  of  the  problem  of  wealth.  He  is  a  self- 
made  man  and  he  has  told  me  again  and  again 
that  the  wealth  he  has  accumulated  is  a  mere 
burden  to  him.  He  says  that  he  was  much  hap- 
pier when  he  had  only  the  plain,  simple  things 
of  life.  Often  as  I  sit  at  dinner  with  him  over  a 
meal  of  nine  courses,  he  tells  me  how  much  he 
would  prefer  a  plain  bit  of  boiled  pork,  with  a 
little  mashed  turnip.  He  says  that  if  he  had  his 
way  he  would  make  his  dinner  out  of  a  couple 
of  sausages,  fried  with  a  bit  of  bread.  I  forget 
what  it  Is  that  stands  in  his  way.  I  have  seen 
Spugg  put  aside  his  glass  of  champagne — or 
his  glass  after  he  had  drunk  his  champagne — 
with  an  expression  of  something  like  contempt. 
He  says  that  he  remembers  a  running  creek  at 
287 


Further  FoolisJmess 


the  back  of  his  father's  farm  where  he  used  to 
lie  at  full  length  upon  the  grass  and  drink  his 
fill.  Champagne,  he  says,  never  tasted  like  that. 
I  have  suggested  that  he  should  lie  on  his  stom- 
ach on  the  floor  of  the  club  and  drink  a  saucer- 
ful  of  soda  water.    But  he  won't. 

I  know  well  that  my  friend  Spugg  would  be 
glad  to  be  rid  of  his  wealth  altogether,  if  such 
a  thing  were  possible.  Till  I  understood  about 
these  things,  I  always  imagined  that  wealth 
could  be  given  away.  It  appears  that  it  can 
not.  It  is  a  burden  that  one  must  carry. 
Wealth,  if  one  has  enough  of  it,  becomes  a  form 
of  social  service.  One  regards  it  as  a  means 
of  doing  good  to  the  world,  of  helping  to 
brighten  the  lives  of  others,  in  a  word,  a  solemn 
trust.  Spugg  has  often  talked  with  me  so  long 
and  so  late  on  this  topic — the  duty  of  brighten- 
ing the  lives  of  others — that  the  waiter  who 
held  blue  flames  for  his  cigarettes  fell  asleep 
against  a  door  post,  and  the  chauffeur  outside 
froze  to  the  seat  of  his  motor. 

Spugg's  wealth,  I  say,  he  regards  as  a  solemn 
trust.  I  have  often  asked  him  why  he  "didn't 
288 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

give  it,  for  example,  to  a  college.  But  he  tells 
me  that  unfortunately  he  Is  not  a  college  man. 
I  have  called  his  attention  to  the  need  of 
further  pensions  for  college  professors;  after 
all  that  Mr.  Carnegie  and  others  have  done, 
there  are  still  thousands  and  thousands  of  old 
professors  of  thirty-five  and  even  forty,  work- 
ing away  day  after  day  and  getting  nothing 
but  what  they  earn  themselves,  and  with  no  pro- 
vision beyond  the  age  of  eighty-five.  But  Mr. 
Spugg  says  that  these  men  are  the  nation's 
heroes.     Their  work  is  its  own  reward. 

But  after  all,  Mr.  Spugg's  troubles — for  he 
is  a  single  man  with  no  ties — are  in  a  sense 
selfish.  It  is  perhaps  in  the  homes — or  more 
properly  in  the  residences — of  the  rich  that 
the  great  silent  tragedies  are  being  enacted  ev- 
ery day — tragedies  of  which  the  fortunate  poor 
know  and  can  know  nothing. 

I  saw  such  a  case  only  a  few  nights  ago  at 
the  house  of  the  Ashcroft-Fowlers,  where  I 
was  dining.  As  we  went  in  to  dinner,  Mrs.  Ash- 
croft-Fowler  said  in  a  quiet  aside  to  her  hus- 
band, "Has  Meadows  spoken?"  He  shook  his 
289 


Further  Foolishness 


head  rather  gloomily  and  answered,  "No,  he 
has  said  nothing  yet."  I  saw  them  exchange  a 
glance  of  quiet  sympathy  and  mutual  help,  like 
people  In  trouble,  who  love  one  another. 

They  were  old  friends  and  my  heart  beat  for 
them.  All  through  the  dinner  as  Meadows — 
he  was  their  butler — ^poured  out  the  wine  with 
each  course,  I  could  feel  that  some  great  trouble 
was  impending  over  my  friends. 

After  Mrs.  Ashcroft-Fowler  had  risen  and 
left  us,  and  we  were  alone  over  our  port  wine, 
I  drew  my  chair  near  to  Fowler's  and  I  said, 
"My  dear  Fowler,  I'm  an  old  friend  and  you'll 
excuse  me  if  I  seem  to  be  taking  a  liberty.  But 
I  can  see  that  you  and  your  wife  are  in  trouble." 

"Yes,"  he  said  very  sadly  and  quietly,  "we 
are." 

"Excuse  me,"  I  said.  "Tell  me — for  It 
makes  a  thing  easier  if  one  talks  about  it — Is 
it  anything  about  Meadows?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  about  Meadows." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  but  I  knew 
already  what  Fowler  was  going  to  say.  I 
could  feel  it  coming. 

290 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

"Meadows,"  he  said  presently,  constraining 
himself  to  speak  with  as  little  emotion  as  pos- 
sible, "is  leaving  us." 

"Poor  old  chap!"  I  said,  taking  his  hand. 

"It's  hard,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Franklin  left 
last  winter — no  fault  of  ours;  we  did  every- 
thing we  could — and  now  Meadows." 

There  was  almost  a  sob  in  his  voice. 

"He  hasn't  spoken  definitely  as  yet,"  Fowler 
went  on,  "but  we  know  there's  hardly  any 
chance  of  his  staying." 

"Does  he  give  any  reason?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  specific,"  said  Fowler.  "It's  just 
a  sheer  case  of  incompatibility.  Meadows 
doesn't  like  us." 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  face  and  was  silent. 

I  left  very  quietly  a  little  later,  without  go- 
ing up  to  the  drawing  room.  A  few  days  after- 
wards I  heard  that  Meadows  had  gone.  The 
Ashcroft-Fowlers,  I  am  told,  are  giving  up  in 
despair.  They  are  going  to  take  a  little  suite 
of  ten  rooms  and  four  baths  In  the  Grand  Pala- 
v^er  Hotel,  and  rough  it  there  for  the  winter. 

Yet  one  must  not  draw  a  picture  of  the  rich 
291 


Further  Foolishness 


In  colours  altogether  gloomy.  There  are  cases 
among  them  of  genuine,  light-hearted  happi- 
ness. 

I  have  observed  that  this  is  especially  the  case 
among  those  of  the  rich  who  have  the  good  for- 
tune to  get  ruined,  absolutely  and  completely 
ruined.  They  may  do  this  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change or  by  banking  or  in  a  dozen  other  ways. 
The  business  side  of  getting  ruined  is  not  diffi- 
cult. 

Once  the  rich  are  ruined,  they  are — as  far  as 
my  observation  goes — all  right.  They  can  then 
have  anything  they  want. 

I  saw  this  point  illustrated  again  just  re- 
cently. I  was  walking  with  a  friend  of  mine 
and  a  motor  passed  bearing  a  neatly  dressed 
young  man,  chatting  gaily  with  a  pretty  woman. 
My  friend  raised  his  hat  and  gave  it  a  jaunty 
and  cheery  swing  in  the  air  as  if  to  wave 
goodwill  and  happiness. 

"Poor  old  Edward  Overjoy!"  he  said,  as 
the  motor  moved  out  of  sight. 

"What's  wrong  with  him?"  I  asked. 

"Hadn't  you  heard?"  said  my  friend.  "He's 
292 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

ruined — absolutely  cleaned  out — not  a  cent 
left." 

"Dear  me!"  I  said.  "That's  awfully  hard. 
I  suppose  he'll  have  to  sell  that  beautiful 
motor?" 

My  friend  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  no,"  he 
said.  "He'll  hardly  do  that.  I  don't  thinlc 
his   wife,   would   care   to    sell   that." 

My  friend  was  right.  The  Overjoys  have 
not  sold  their  motor.  Neither  have  they  sold 
their  magnificent  sandstone  residence.  They 
are  too  much  attached  to  it,  I  believe,  to  sell 
it.  Some  people  thought  they  would  have  given 
up  their  box  at  the  opera.  But  it  appears  not. 
They  are  too  musical  to  care  to  do  that.  Mean- 
time it  is  a  matter  of  general  notoriety  that 
the  Overjoys  are  absolutely  ruined;  in  fact, 
they  haven't  a  single  cent.  You  could  buy 
Overjoy — so  I  am  informed — for  ten  dollars. 

But  I  observe  that  he  still  wears  a  seal 
lined  coat  worth  at  least  five  hundred. 


293 


XVIL— Humor  As  I  See  It 

IT  is   only   fair  that  at  the  back  of  this 
book  I   should  be   allowed  a   few  pages 
to  myself  to  put  down  some  things  that 
I   really  think. 
Until  two  weeks  ago  I  might  have  taken  my 
pen  in  hand  to  write  about  humour  with  the 
confident  air  of  an  acknowledged  professional. 
But  that  time  is  past.     Such  claim  as  I  had 
has  been  taken  from  me.     In  fact  I  stand  un- 
masked.     An   English   reviewer   writing   in   a 
literary  journal,   the   very   name   of   which   is 
enough  to  put  contradiction  to  sleep,  has  said 
of  my  writing,   "What  is  there,   after  all,   in 
Professor  Leacock's  humour  but  a  rather  in- 
genious  mixture    of   hyperbole    and   myosis?" 
The  man  was  right.     How  he  stumbled  upon 
this  trade  secret,  I  do  not  know.     But  I  am 
willing  to  admit,   since  the  truth  is   out,   that 
it  has  long  been  my  custom  in  preparing  an 
294 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

article  of  a  humorous  nature  to  go  down  to 
the  cellar  and  mix  up  half  a  gallon  of  myosis 
with  a  pint  of  hyperbole.  If  I  want  to  give 
the  article  a  decidedly  literary  character,  I  find 
it  well  to  put  in  about  half  a  pint  of  paresis. 
The  whole  thing  is  amazingly  simple. 

But  I  only  mention  this  by  way  of  introduc- 
tion and  to  dispel  any  idea  that  I  am  conceited 
enough  to  write  about  humour,  with  the  pro- 
fessional authority  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 
writing  about  love,  or  Eva  Tanguay  talking 
about  dancing. 

All  that  I  dare  claim  is  that  I  have  as  much 
sense  of  humour  as  other  people.  And,  oddly 
enough,  I  notice  that  everybody  else  makes  this 
same  claim.  Any  man  will  admit,  if  need  be, 
that  his  sight  is  not  good,  or  that  he  cannot 
swim,  or  shoots  badly  with  a  rifle,  but  to 
touch  upon  his  sense  of  humour  is  to  give  him 
a  mortal  affront. 

"No,"  said  a  friend  of  mine  the  other  day, 
"I   never  go  to  Grand  Opera,"   and  then  he 
added  with  an  air  of  pride — "You  see,  I  have 
absolutely  no  ear  for  music." 
295 


Further  Foolishness 


"You  don't  say  so!"  I  exclaimed. 

"None!"  he  went  on.  "I  can't  tell  one  tune 
from  another.  I  don't  know  Home  Sweet 
Home  from  God,  Save  the  King.  I  can't  tell 
whether  a  man  is  tuning  a  violin  or  playing  a 
sonata." 

He  seemed  to  get  prouder  and  prouder  over 
each  item  of  his  own  deficiency.  He  ended 
by  saying  that  he  had  a  dog  at  his  house  that 
had  a  far  better  ear  for  music  than  he  had. 
As  soon  as  his  wife  or  any  visitor  started  to 
play  the  piano  the  dog  always  began  to  howl — 
plaintively,  he  said,  as  if  it  were  hurt.  He  him- 
self never  did  this. 

When  he  had  finished  I  made  what  I  thought 
a  harmless  comment. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  "that  you  find  your 
sense  of  humour  deficient  in  the  same  way: 
the  two  generally  go  together." 

My  friend  was  livid  with  rage  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Sense  of  humour!"  he  said.  "My  sense 
of  humour!  Me  without  a  sense  of  humour! 
Why,  I  suppose  I've  a  keener  sense  of  humour 
296 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

than  any  man,  or  any  two  men,  in  this  city!" 

From  that  he  turned  to  bitter  personal  at- 
tack. He  said  that  my  sense  of  humour  seemed 
to  have  withered  altogether. 

He  left  me,  still  quivering  with  indignation. 

Personally,  however,  I  do  not  mind  making 
the  admission,  however  damaging  it  may  be, 
that  there  are  certain  forms  of  so-called  hu- 
mour, or,  at  least,  fun,  which  I  am  quite  un- 
able to  appreciate.  Chief  among  these  is  that 
ancient  thing  called  the  Practical  Joke. 

"You  never  knew  McGann,  did  you?"  a 
friend  of  mine  asked  me  the  other  day.  When 
I  said  "No,  I  had  never  known  McGann,"  he 
shook  his  head  with  a  sigh,  and  said: 

"Ah,  you  should  have  known  McGann.  He 
had  the  greatest  sense  of  humour  of  any  man 
I  ever  knew — always  full  of  jokes.  I  remem- 
ber one  night  at  the  boarding  house  where  we 
were,  he  stretched  a  string  across  the  passage- 
way and  then  rang  the  dinner  bell.  One  of 
the  boarders  broke  his  leg.  We  nearly  died 
laughing." 

297 


Further  Foolishness 


"Dear  me  I"  I  said.  "What  a  humorist! 
Did  he  often  do  things  hke  that?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  was  at  them  all  the  time.  He 
used  to  put  tar  in  the  tomato  soup,  and  bees- 
wax and  tin-tacks  on  the  chairs.  He  was  full 
of  ideas.  They  seemed  to  come  to  him  with- 
out any  trouble. 

McGann,  I  understand,  is  dead.  I  am  not 
sorry  for  it.  Indeed  I  think  that  for  most  of 
us  the  time  has  gone  by  when  we  can  see  the 
fun  of  putting  tacks  on  chairs,  or  thistles  in 
beds,  or  live  snakes  in  people's  boots. 

To  me  it  has  always  seemed  that  the  very 
essence  of  good  humour  is  that  it  must  be  with- 
out harm  and  without  malice.  I  admit  that 
there  is  in  all  of  us  a  certain  vein  of  the  old 
original  demoniacal  humour  or  joy  in  the  mis- 
fortune of  another  which  sticks  to  us  like  our 
original  sin.  It  ought  not  to  be  funny  to  see 
a  man,  especially  a  fat  and  pompous  man,  slip 
suddenly  on  a  banana  skin.  But  it  is.  When  a 
skater  on  a  pond  who  is  describing  graceful 
circles  and  showing  off  before  the  crowd,  breaks 
through  the  ice  and  gets  a  ducking,  everybody 
298 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

shouts  with  joy.  To  the  original  savage,  the 
cream  of  the  joke  in  such  cases  was  found  if 
the  man  who  slipped  broke  his  neck,  or  the 
man  who  went  through  the  ice  never  came  up 
again.  I  can  imagine  a  group  of  pre-historic 
men  standing  round  the  ice-hole  where  he  had 
disappeared  and  laughing  till  their  sides  split. 
If  there  had  been  such  a  thing  as  a  pre- 
historic newspaper,  the  affair  would  have  been 
headed  up:  "Amusing  Incident.  Unknown  Gen- 
tleman Breaks  Through  Ice  and  Is  Drowned.'* 

But  our  sense  of  humour  under  civilisation 
has  been  weakened.  Much  of  the  fun  of  this 
sort  of  thing  has  been  lost  on  us. 

Children,  however,  still  retain  a  large  share 
of  this  primitive  sense  of  enjoyment. 

I  remember  once  watching  two  little  boys 
making  snow-balls  at  the  side  of  the  street  and 
getting  ready  a  little  store  of  them  to  use.  As 
they  worked  there  came  along  an  old  man  wear- 
ing a  silk  hat,  and  belonging  by  appearance  to 
the  class  of  "jolly  old  gentlemen."  When  he 
saw  the  boys  his  gold  spectacles  gleamed  with 
kindly  enjoyment.  He  began  waving  his  arms 
299 


Further  Foolishness 


and  calling,  "Now,  then,  boys,  free  shot  at 
me!  free  shot  I"  In  his  gaiety  he  had,  without 
noticing  it,  edged  himself  over  the  sidewalk 
on  to  the  street.  An  express  cart  collided  with 
him  and  knocked  him  over  on  his  back  in  a 
heap  of  snow.  He  lay  there  gasping  and  try- 
ing to  get  the  snow  off  his  face  and  spectacles. 
The  boys  gathered  up  their  snow-balls  and  took 
a  run  towards  him.  "Free  shot!"  they  yelled. 
"Soak  him!     Soak  him!" 

I  repeat,  however,  that  for  me,  as  I  suppose 
for  most  of  us,  it  is  a  prime  condition  of 
humour  that  it  must  be  without  harm  or  malice, 
nor  should  it  convey  even  incidentally  any  real 
picture  of  sorrow  or  suffering  or  death.  There 
is  a  great  deal  in  the  humour  of  Scotland  (I 
admit  its  general  merit)  which  seems  to  me, 
not  being  a  Scotchman,  to  sin  in  this  respect. 
Take  this  familiar  story  (I  quote  it  as  some- 
thing already  known  and  not  for  the  sake  of 
telling  it). 

A  Scotchman  had  a  sister-in-law — his  wife's 
sister — with  whom  he  could  never  agree.  He 
always  objected  to  going  anywhere  with  her, 
300 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 


and  in  spite  of  his  wife's  entreaties  always 
refused  to  do  so.  The  wife  was  taken  mor- 
tally ill  and  as  she  lay  dying,  she  whispered, 
"John,  ye'U  drive  Janet  with  you  to  the  funeral, 
will  ye  no?"  The  Scotchman,  after  an  internal 
struggle,  answered,  "Margaret,  I'll  do  it  for 
ye,  but  it'll  spoil  my  day," 

Whatever  humour  there  may  be  in  this  is 
lost  for  me  by  the  actual  and  vivid  picture 
that  it  conjures  up — the  dying  wife,  the  dark- 
ened room  and  the  last  whispered  request. 

No  doubt  the  Scotch  see  things  differently. 
That  wonderful  people — whom  personally  I 
cannot  too  much  admire — always  seem  to  me 
to  prefer  adversity  to  sunshine,  to  welcome 
the  prospect  of  a  pretty  general  damnation, 
and  to  live  with  grim  cheerfulness  within  the 
very  shadow  of  death.  Alone  among  the  na- 
tions they  have  converted  the  devil — under  such 
names  as  Old  Horny — into  a  familiar  acquain- 
tance not  without  a  certain  grim  charm  of  his 
own.  No  doubt  also  there  enters  into  their 
humour  something  of  the  original  barbaric  at- 
titude towards  things.  For  a  primitive  people 
301 


Further  Foolishness 


who  saw  death  often  and  at  first  hand,  and 
for  whom  the  future  world  was  a  vivid  reality, 
that  could  be  felt,  as  it  were,  in  the  midnight 
forest  and  heard  in  the  roaring  storm — for 
such  a  people  it  was  no  doubt  natural  to  turn 
the  flank  of  terror  by  forcing  a  merry  and 
jovial  acquaintance  with  the  unseen  world.  Such 
a  practice  as  a  wake,  and  the  merrymaking 
about  the  corpse,  carry  us  back  to  the  twilight 
of  the  world,  with  the  poor  savage  in  his  be- 
wildered misery,  pretending  that  his  dead  still 
lived.  Our  funeral  with  its  black  trappings 
and  its  elaborate  ceremonies  is  the  lineal  de- 
scendant of  a  merrymaking.  Our  undertaker 
is,  by  evolution,  a  genial  master  of  ceremonies, 
keeping  things  hvely  at  the  death-dance.  Thus 
have  the  ceremonies  and  the  trappings  of  death 
been  transformed  in  the  course  of  ages  till  the 
forced  gaiety  is  gone,  and  the  black  hearse  and 
the  gloomy  mutes  betoken  the  cold  dignity  of 
our  despair. 

But  I  fear  this  article  is  getting  serious.     I 
must  apologise. 

I  was  about  to  say,  when  I  wandered  from 
302 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 


the  point,  that  there  is  another  form  of  humour 
which  I  am  also  quite  unable  to  appreciate. 
This  is  that  particular  form  of  story  which 
may  be  called,  par  excellence,  the  English 
Anecdote.  It  always  deals  with  persons  of 
rank  and  birth,  and,  except  for  the  exalted 
nature  of  the  subject  itself,  is,  as  far  as  I  can 
see,  absolutely  pointless. 

This  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  I  mean. 

"His  Grace  the  Fourth  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough was  noted  for  the  openhanded  hospitality 
which  reigned  at  Blenheim,  the  family  seat,  dur- 
ing his  regime.  One  day  on  going  in  to  lunch- 
eon it  was  discovered  that  there  were  thirty 
guests  present,  whereas  the  table  only  held  cov- 
ers for  twenty-one.  'Oh,  well,'  said  the  Duke, 
not  a  whit  abashed,  'some  of  us  will  have  to 
eat  standing  up.'  Everybody,  of  course,  roared 
with  laughter." 

My  only  wonder  is  that  they  didn't  kill 
themselves  with  it.  A  mere  roar  doesn't  seem 
enough  to  do  justice  to  such  a  story  as  this. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  has  been  made  the 
storm-centre  of  three  generations  of  wit  of  this 
303 


Further  Foolishness 


sort.  In  fact  the  typical  Duke  of  Wellington 
story  has  been  reduced  to  a  thin  skeleton  such 
as  this: 

"A  young  subaltern  once  met  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  coming  out  of  Westminster  Abbey. 
'Good  morning,  your  Grace,'  he  said,  'rather 
a  wet  morning.'  'Yes,'  said  the  Duke,  with  a 
very  rigid  bow,  'but  It  was  a  damn  sight  wetter, 
sir,  on  the  morning  of  Waterloo.'  The  young 
subaltern,  rightly  rebuked,  hung  his  head." 

Nor  is  It  only  the  English  who  sin  In  regard 
to   anecdotes. 

One  can  Indeed  make  the  sweeping  asser- 
tion that  the  telling  of  stories  as  a  mode  of 
amusing  others,  ought  to  be  kept  within  strict 
limits.  Few  people  realise  how  extremely  dif- 
ficult It  Is  to  tell  a  story  so  as  to  reproduce  the 
real  fun  of  It — to  "get  It  over"  as  the  actors 
say.  The  mere  "facts"  of  a  story  seldom  make 
it  funny.  It  needs  the  right  words,  with  every 
word  in  its  proper  place.  Here  and  there, 
perhaps  once  In  a  hundred  times  a  story  turns 
up  which  needs  no  telling.  The  humour  of  It 
turns  so  completely  on  a  sudden  twist  or  In- 
304 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

congniity  in  the  denouement  of  it  tliat  no  nar- 
rator however  clumsy  can  altogether  fumble  it. 

Take,  for  example,  this  well  known  instance 
— a  story  which,  in  one  form  or  other,  every- 
body has  heard. 

"George  Grossmith,  the  famous  comedian, 
was  once  badly  run  down  and  went  to  consult 
a  doctor.  It  happened  that  the  doctor,  though, 
like  everybody  else,  he  had  often  seen  Gros- 
smith on  the  stage,  had  never  seen  him  without 
his  make-up  and  did  not  know  him  by  sight. 
He  examined  his  patient,  looked  at  his  tongue, 
felt  his  pulse  and  tapped  his  lungs.  Then  he 
shook  his  head.  'There's  nothing  wrong  with 
you,  sir,'  he  said,  'except  that  you're  run 
down  from  overwork  and  worry.  You  need 
rest  and  amusement.  Take  a  night  off  and  go 
and  see  George  Grossmith  at  the  Savoy.' 

"  'Thank  you,'  said  the  patient,  'I  am 
George  Grossmith.'  " 

Let  the  reader  please  observe  that  I  have 

purposely  told  this  story  all  wrongly,  just  as 

wrongly  as  could  be,  and  yet  there  is  something 

left  of  it.     Will  the  reader  kindly  look  back 

305 


Further  Foolishness 


to  the  beginning  of  it  and  see  for  himself  just 
how  it  ought  to  be  narrated  and  what  obvious 
error  has  been  made.  If  he  has  any  particle 
of  the  artist  in  his  make-up,  he  will  see  at  once 
that  the  story  ought  to  begin: 

"One  day  a  very  haggard  and  nervous  look- 
ing patient  called  at  the  office  of  a  fashionable 
doctor,  etc.,  etc." 

In  other  words,  the  chief  point  of  the  joke 
lies  in  keeping  it  concealed  till  the  moment 
when  the  patient  says,  "Thank  you,  I  am 
George  Grossmith."  But  the  story  is  such  a 
good  one  that  it  cannot  be  completely  spoiled 
even  when  told  wrongly.  This  particular 
anecdote  has  been  variously  told  of  George 
Grossmith,  Coquelin,  Joe  Jefferson,  John 
Hare,  Cyril  Maude,  and  about  sixty  others. 
And  I  have  noticed  that  there  is  a  certain  type 
of  man  who,  on  hearing  this  story  about  Gros- 
smith, immediately  tells  it  all  back  again, 
putting  in  the  name  of  somebody  else,  and  goes 
into  new  fits  of  laughter  over  it,  as  if  the 
change  of  name  made  it  brand  new. 

But  few  people,  I  repeat,  realise  the  dif- 
306 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

ficulty  of  reproducing  a  humorous  or  comic  ef- 
fect in  its  original  spirit. 

"I  saw  Harry  Lauder  last  night,"  said 
Griggs,  a  Stock-Exchange  friend  of  mine,  as  we 
walked  up  town  together  the  other  day.  "He 
came  onto  the  stage  in  kilts"  (here  Griggs 
started  to  chuckle)  "and  he  had  a  slate  under 
his  arm"  (here  Griggs  began  to  laugh  quite 
heartily),  "and  he  said,  'I  always  like  to  carry 
a  slate  with  me'  (of  course  he  said  it  in  Scotch, 
but  I  can't  do  the  Scotch  the  way  he  does  it) 
'just  In  case  there  might  be  any  figures  I'd  be 
wanting  to  put  down'  "  (by  this  time  Griggs 
was  almost  suffocated  with  laughter) — "and 
he  took  a  little  bit  of  chalk  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  he  said"  (Griggs  was  now  almost  hysteri- 
cal), "'I  like  to  carry  a  wee  bit  chalk  along 
because  I  find  the  slate  is  (Griggs  was  now 
faint  with  laughter),  "'the  slate  is — is — not 
much  good  without  the  chalk.'  " 

Griggs  had  to  stop,  with  his  hand  to  his 
side  and  lean  against  a  lamp  post.  "I  can't,  of 
course,  do  the  Scotch  the  way  Harry  Lauder 
does  it,"  he  repeated. 

307 


Further  Foolishness 


Exactly.  He  couldn't  do  the  Scotch  and  he 
couldn't  do  the  rich  mellow  voice  of  Mr. 
Lauder  and  the  face  beaming  with  merriment, 
and  the  spectacles  glittering  with  amusement, 
and  he  couldn't  do  the  slate,  nor  the  "wee  bit 
chalk" — in  fact  he  couldn't  do  any  of  it.  He 
ought  merely  to  have  said,  "Harry  Lauder," 
and  leaned  up  against  a  post  and  laughed  till  he 
had  got  over  it. 

Yet  in  spite  of  everything,  people  insist  on 
spoiling  conversation  by  telling  stories.  I 
know  nothing  more  dreadful  at  a  dinner  table 
than  one  of  these  amateur  raconteurs — except 
perhaps,  two  of  them.  After  about  three 
stories  have  been  told,  there  falls  on  the  dinner 
table  an  uncomfortable  silence,  in  which  every- 
body is  aware  that  everybody  else  is  trying  hard 
to  think  of  another  story,  and  is  failing  to 
find  it.  There  is  no  peace  in  the  gathering 
again  till  some  man  of  firm  and  quiet  mind 
turns  to  his  neighbour  and  says — "But  after 
all  there  Is  no  doubt  that  whether  we  like  it  or 
not  prohibition  is  coming."  Then  everybody 
in  his  heart  says.  Thank  Heaven !  and  the  whole 
308 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 


tableful  are  happy  and  contented  again,  till  one 
of  the  story  tellers  "thinks  of  another,"  and 
breaks  loose. 

Worst  of  all  perhaps  is  the  modest  story 
teller  who  is  haunted  by  the  idea  that  one  has 
heard  his  story  before.  He  attacks  you  after 
this  fashion: 

"I  heard  a  very  good  story  the  other  day 
on  the  steamer  going  to  Bermuda" — then  he 
pauses  with  a  certain  doubt  in  his  face — "but 
perhaps  you've  heard  this?" 

"No,  no,  I've  never  been  to  Bermuda.  Go 
ahead." 

"Well,  this  is  a  story  that  they  tell  about 
a  man  who  went  down  to  Bermuda  one  winter 
to  get  cured  of  rheumatism — but  you've  heard 
this?" 

"No,  no." 

"Well  he  had  rheumatism  pretty  bad  and  he 
went  to  Bermuda  to  get  cured  of  it.  And  so 
when  he  went  into  the  hotel  he  said  to  the 
clerk  at  the  desk — but,  perhaps  you  know  this." 

"No,   no,   go   right   ahead." 

"Well,  he  said  to  the  clerk  I  want  a  room 

309 


Further  Foolishness 


that  looks  out  over  the  sea — but  perhaps- 


Now  the  sensible  thing  to  do  is  to  stop  the 
narrator  right  at  this  point.  Say  to  him 
quietly  and  firmly,  "Yes,  I  have  heard  that 
story.  I  always  liked  it  ever  since  it  came  out 
in  Titbits  in  1878,  and  I  read  it  every  time  I 
see  it.  Go  on  and  tell  it  to  me  and  I'll  sit  back 
with  my  eyes  closed  and  enjoy  it." 

No  doubt  the  story-telling  habit  owes  much 
to  the  fact  that  ordinary  people,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, rate  humour  very  low:  I  mean,  they 
underestimate  the  difficulty  of  "making  hu- 
mour." It  would  never  occur  to  them  that  the 
thing  is  hard,  meritorious  and  dignified.  Be- 
cause the  result  is  gay  and  light,  they  think  the 
process  must  be.  Few  people  would  realise 
that  it  is  much  harder  to  write  one  of  Owen 
Seaman's  "funny"  poems  in  Punch  than  to 
write  one  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury's 
sermons.  Mark  Twain's  Huckleberry  Finn  is 
a  greater  work  than  Kant's  Critique  of  Pure 
Reason,  and  Charles  Dickens'  creation  of  Mr. 
Pickwick  did  more  for  the  elevation  of  the 
human  race — I  say  it  in  all  seriousness — than 
310 


Timid  Thoughts  on  Timely  Topics 

Cardinal  Newman's  Lead,  Kindly  Light,  Amid 
the  Encircling  Gloom.  Newman  only  cried  out 
for  light  In  the  gloom  of  a  sad  world.  Dickens 
gave  it. 

But  the  deep  background  that  lies  behind 
and  beyond  what  we  call  humour  is  revealed 
only  to  the  few  who,  by  instinct  or  by  effort* 
have  given  thought  to  it.  The  world's  humour, 
in  its  best  and  greatest  sense,  is  perhaps  the 
highest  product  of  our  civilisation.  One  thinks 
here  not  of  the  mere  spasmodic  effects  of  the 
comic  artist  or  the  blackface  expert  of  the 
vaudeville  show,  but  of  the  really  great  humour 
which,  once  or  twice  in  a  generation  at  best, 
illuminates  and  elevates  our  literature.  It  is 
no  longer  dependent  upon  the  mere  trick  and 
quibble  of  words,  or  the  odd  and  meaningless 
incongruities  in  things  that  strike  us  as  "funny." 
Its  basis  lies  in  the  deeper  contrasts  offered  by 
life  itself :  the  strange  incongruity  between  our 
aspiration  and  our  achievement,  the  eager  and 
fretful  anxieties  of  to-day  that  fade  into  noth- 
ingness to-morrow,  the  burning  pain  and  the 
sharp  sorrow  that  are  softened  In  the  gentle 
311 


Further  Foolishness 


retrospect  of  time,  till  as  we  look  back  upon 
the  course  that  has  been  traversed  we  pass  in 
view  the  panorama  of  our  lives,  as  people  in 
old  age  may  recall,  with  mingled  tears  and 
smiles,  the  angry  quarrels  of  their  childhood. 
And  here,  in  its  larger  aspect,  humour  is 
blended  with  pathos  till  the  two  are  one,  and 
represent,  as  they  have  in  every  age,  the  min- 
gled heritage  of  tears  and  laughter  that  is  our 
lot  on  earth. 


312 


DATE  DUE 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  US    A. 

AA    000  587  673'  5 


1 

1 

mm 

